Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“I’m not allowed to park in the driveway.” I’m tempted to end my sentence with a “duh” instead of a period, but my mom would disapprove. Dead or alive.
“Will’s on shift until Wednesday, and Maren’s taking Professor Gray Balls to New York,” he mumbles over a mouthful of the burrito.
I slurp another sip of my hot soup before grabbing my keys and tucking my feet into my boots. “So we’ll be alone. That’s good. You can share your deepest secrets with me.” I slide my arms into my jacket.
“Fuck that.” Fitz saunters up the stairs with his burrito and hot sauce in one hand and his tea in the other as I head out into the cold.
Will said Missoula rarely receives this much snow all at once. There’s a mountain of it that’s already been plowed. It engulfs my legs past my knees, sucking my boot right off my leg when I open the door and climb into the driver’s seat.
“Oh, come on!” Holding the steering wheel for support, I lean sideways to fish my boot from the drift.
Shoving my foot back into it, I start my Jeep and press on the gas.
Nothing.
I switch to reverse.
Nothing.
It’s four-wheel drive. What’s the problem?
After several failed attempts, I trek toward the garage, curling my toes to keep from walking out of my boots. Four different shovels hang on the wall. I grab two that might work well.
I bail snow, fall on my ass twice, and come dangerously close to losing my fingers to frostbite. My toes are total goners. Yet, I’m sweating through my clothes.
After unearthing my Jeep and pulling it into the driveway, I drag the shovels back to the garage. My gaze snags on the upstairs window at the corner of the house.
Calvin’s watching me with his arms crossed. Has he been watching me the whole time?
“Asshole,” I mumble.
He grins as if he can read my lips.
Minutes later, Fitz descends the stairs while I tug at my boots and peel off my jacket in the entry. “You needed to pull a little farther to the right. I won’t be able to get past you in the morning.”
I huff, blowing my sweaty bangs out of my face. “What time do you leave?”
“Five.” He plops onto the sofa and kicks his bare feet onto the coffee table.
“Five? Why so early? Isn’t it offseason for you?” I stick my finger into the soup and lick it. It’s lukewarm.
“My body doesn’t get an offseason. PT every day.”
“Yeah, me too. I always get my ten thousand steps in.” I pop the bowl of soup back into the microwave.
“Wow, ten thousand. What is that . . . four? Five miles?”
“Something like that. I have short legs.”
“Yeah, speaking of your legs. You should lift with them when you shovel. Your back’s going to hurt like a motherfucker in the morning.”
“Oh? Did you make that observation while you watched me dig out my Jeep?”
He opens the book he brought down. “I did.”
“You could have helped.” I stir my reheated soup.
“And I probably would have, but rumor has it I’m broken. Maybe you can fix that, and then I’ll have the mental and emotional capacity to recognize when a damsel is in distress.”
“Did I look like a damsel in distress?” I glare at him.
He focuses on his book. “I don’t know what you looked like. I just know it was painful to watch.”
I absentmindedly tap the spoon on the edge of my bowl.
Calvin clears his throat, scowling at me.
“Sorry.” I stop tapping.
Minutes later, he clears his throat again and shoots me another scowl.
“What?”
“The chair creaks every time you bounce your leg. Stop bouncing your leg. Can you hold still?”
“No. I’m a fidgeter. I always have been. Did you know—”
“Stop.” He holds out a flat hand in my direction. “If you don’t want to sound like a nerd wearing a ‘homeschooled’ neon sign, then don’t ever start a sentence with ‘Did you know.’”
“Fidgeting is good for your health. It increases blood flow, reduces artery disease, and calms anxiety.”
“Did you know that it has the opposite effect on those in the same room as the fidgeter?” Calvin eyes me with displeasure.
“That’s not true,” I scoff.
He smirks, refocusing on his book. It’s a book on the Titanic. And I’m the nerd?
After studying him over my soup bowl for a good five minutes while focusing on not fidgeting, I clear my throat. Fitz seems to speak that language.
His head swivels in my direction.
“Why jump out of planes?”
“To get to the fire. Any more questions?” His uncompromised grin is as fake as mine but not nearly as playful.
“Hotshots don’t jump out of planes.”
“Yes, Encyclopedia Britannica. I used to be a hotshot, so I can confirm that you are correct. But we smoke jumpers jump. It’s in our name.”
I take my bowl and spoon to the sink to wash them. “I bet you have a lot of first dates but not many second dates. Can you confirm that as well?” I roll up the sleeves of my pink-and-white-striped button-down.