Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Like what you see?”
Oh god—gross. “Who says that?” I roll my eyes and ignore him, walking faster, flipping my hair and unnecessarily sashaying my hips.
Behind me he bellows out a laugh and I’m sorry to miss seeing it, hell-bent on avoiding him while my face is flushed. Why can’t anything with him be easy?
Why can’t I read his mind to know exactly what he’s thinking? Does he like me, does he not? Is he attracted to me? Is he only here because he felt obligated?
Tripp Wallace doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to—no one makes him do anything…
I walk taller, still in front of him.
“God you’re cute when you’re mad.”
He’s laughing again and this time I do turn around; I turn around and catch the wrinkles around his eyes—the laugh lines. The bright, white smile. The dimple in his chin.
Ugh, it’s too much.
My ovaries clench.
It takes us another half hour to weigh, pay, and get through the people wanting to meet Tripp, or pet Chewy, his candy corn costume a massive hit with the crowds.
Another ten minutes while Tripp lifts the dog’s body behind one of those wooden cutouts so it looks like Chewy’s face is on Dracula’s body at the beginning of the corn maze—before we actually make our way out and settle in the truck.
My body groans into the warm, leather seat. “Thank you. This was fun.”
“Was?” He glances over at me then into the back seat at the dog. “Aren’t you coming back to the house to carve these?”
“I didn’t realize you wanted me to.” My plan was to take the thing home and set it on my stoop, untouched and uncarved. Lame, but whatever—who wants to carve a pumpkin by themselves?
Not I.
One side of Tripp’s mouth upturns into the sexiest half-grin. “Chewy back there thinks it would be remiss of me if I bought you a pumpkin and didn’t help you carve it. This one here is heavy.”
Oh lord—speaking for the dog like that is a little weird, but maybe he just has a hard time coming right out and telling me he wants me to come over?
“Okay. Yeah, that would be fun.”
“I think I have hot chocolate somewhere,” he says with a straight face, watching the road intently.
Uh. Okay. Where is this all coming from? He is the last man on earth I would expect this semi-romantic, romantic, fall date planning from. I mean—considering he was basically blackmailed/coerced into bringing me here by a calculating teenage girl.
Tripp Wallace… adorable?
No.
It cannot possibly be.
* * *
Don’t do it, Chandler.
Do. Not. Fall for him.
Don’t.
I glance over at him as he rummages through the kitchen cabinets, retrieving baking pans and spoons and a carving kit. Knife. Bowl. Another knife. Another bowl.
As if he does the choreography to this activity on the regular, bopping around the room fetching supplies that will help us with the jack-o’-lanterns.
Oh boy.
Ohhhhh shit.
It’s happening…
“Will you excuse me? I have to use the bathroom.” I pause. “Um…where’s the bathroom?”
He points past the laundry room.
That’s right. “Gotcha.”
No sooner than I’m closing the door to the slate gray painted powder room do I frantically text my cousin, praying to see those three little conversation bubbles at the bottom of the screen.
Me: Houston, we have a problem.
I briefly set the phone down on the edge of the sink so I can pull my leggings down and sit on the toilet to pee, multitasking at its finest before I have to wipe, wash, and head back into the kitchen.
My phone pings, thank god!
Hollis: Tell me this problem you speak of—is this about clothes?
Me: No. This is way more complicated. I think…I like your brother.
Hollis: Uh. You like Lucien?
Oops, shit, that’s right. I always forget Hollis has a brother—my cousin, Lucien—whom I barely speak to. It’s not that he’s not a nice person, we just never see each other, and he’s a few years older and was always following their dad around like a shadow.
Me: Oops. I mean your BIL—brother-in-law. Tripp.
Hollis: Tripp? You like Tripp? Why is that a problem?
Hollis: Ohhhhh, you mean you LIKE him like him.
Me: When you say LIKE him like him, you make it sound like I’m fourteen.
Hollis: But falling into like with someone is so much fun and isn’t it FUN to feel young again…? **SIGH**
Me: Maybe, but this is TRIPP we’re talking about. The man is impossible—I should seek COUNSELING to get my head on straight. I mean. He’s the least likely man to fall in love with someone.
Hollis: I’ll admit, he does seem rough around the edges and hard to talk to.
Me: Hence the problem.
Hollis: Do you want me to ask Buzz to ask Tripp if he likes you back?
Is she insane!?
Me: HOLLIS, I JUST TOLD YOU TO STOP MAKING IT SOUND LIKE WE ARE IN MIDDLE SCHOOL.
Hollis: And I’m telling you it’s MORE FUN THIS WAY.