Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
“Are you sure about that? I tried dating some before Mom got sick, and it was—” I make a face that explains it all. Then again, I never met any man like Wyatt before.
“So you’re going to watch your best friend”—she holds up her fingers doing air quotes when she says it—“marry someone.”
“You’re forgetting he doesn't see me as more than a friend. He’s made that clear in the past.” I try not to cringe thinking about it. It had been a few months after we met and we’d been hanging at his place. We’d watched the movie Stepmom. Between that and too much wine I’d been a mess. I tried to kiss him. He’d shut it down quick. I tried icing him out after that, embarrassed that I had come on to him. But in true Wyatt fashion he didn't let me, and our friendship only grew from there. So has my crush.
Even calling it a crush is too small for what I feel for him. He has this calming force over me. I relax when I’m with him. I don’t know how he manages it, but he does. I’ve had to learn to live with the fact that he only considers me a friend. Yet I have to admit that each time he suggests that I marry him, a small part of me wishes I could do exactly that. Even though I know he’d only be doing it out of convenience.
“I don’t know. I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he comes in here.”
“I think you’re reading too many romance novels.” I open my laptop and attach the list to an email. My finger hovers over the send button. Don’t be selfish. He saved my job once; this is my chance to return the favor.
I hit send. Regret hits me harder than I ever could have imagined.
Chapter Three
Wyatt
A list? I stare in stupefaction at the email I just got from Lucy. She actually did it. How in the world could she create a list of supposedly perfect candidates for marriage? It should only be her name on the list. I press print, grab the paper, and rush out the door to The Daily Drip, where I know Lucy will be hanging out as the place is her second home.
“What the hell is this?” I shout, shaking the paper at her.
“It’s a piece of paper from the looks of it, and since you’re a lawyer, it could be anything from you demanding a million dollars to you asking for the network to be checked because you can’t load the NBA app.” She takes a sip of her skinny mocha no whip, extra hot, please, latte. Her friend, Eden, watches from behind the espresso machine.
“It’s the list of names you sent me. Don’t forget the almond milk. That shit is good.”
“I know how you like it,” calls Eden.
“But you only started making it with almond milk six months ago,” I remind her. At first, I didn’t like the change-up, but now I can’t drink the regular cow stuff.
“Because Lucy told me to switch it up for you. She knows what you like.”
I turn to Lucy with a glower. “This is not the same thing as turning me on to almond milk in my coffee.”
Lucy grabs the list from me. “Stop waving that around. Why are you printing it out anyway? Save some trees.” She grabs the now finished drink from Eden, shoves it into my hand, takes my phone from my other hand, flashes it in front of the screen, and then places it into my breast pocket. “There you go. Coffee made. Check paid. Off you go.”
And just like that I’m dismissed. Unreal. I pick up my coffee and take a drink. At least my morning brew is perfect.
When I get to my office, Ernest informs me that my Uncle Cristoff wants to see me.
“Give him this,” I tell my assistant. I shove the crumpled paper in his face.
He scans it over quickly and asks, “Is this a marriage list?”
“I didn’t make it. It’s a gift from Lucy.” I really thought after Lucy kissed me that we might have a chance, but the next day, when she wasn’t drunk, she acted like she never wanted to speak of the incident again. As if kissing me was the worst thing she’d ever done in her life.
“Lucy gave you this?” he repeats.
“Yes. I feel the same way—dumbfounded.”
“I don’t see her name on it.”
“She doesn’t think she’s good marriage material.”
“Maybe she thinks you’re not good marriage material,” Ernest counters.
I stop at the door to my office and spin back to my assistant. “Are you serious?”
“You’re a workaholic, somewhat short-tempered, don’t care much for other people’s opinions, like having your own way. Did I mention workaholic?”
“I’m not that bad.”
“You had a shower installed because you felt like it took too long to get to your townhouse which is a five-minute walk away.”