Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“You’re probably not sure what to say or how to respond,” he mutters tiredly, causing me to look at him in surprise, “and that’s totally okay. You don’t gotta say a dang thing, in fact. Let me do all the blabbering. Just wanted to … offer my olive branch in the form of a mug of Jacky-Ann’s best.” He sighs contentedly. “I don’t even gotta hear about how it went with Mr. Perfection.”
I smirk down at my mug of coffee.
He’s still jealous.
“I haven’t dated anyone since Bobby,” I divulge after another sip. “That was over three years ago. Not sure if I mentioned that.”
“Ah, right. Overheard that when you talked to Bobby n’ Jimmy on the porch, right before we left for town yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh … right.” I forgot he was lurking somewhere behind me during all of that.
“So how long did y’all date for?”
“Hmm?” I turn halfway to Samuel. I’m not able to look him in the eyes just yet. “Who?”
“You and Bobby.”
The question throws me a bit. “Just the once.”
And my answer throws him. “Huh? The once?”
“Yes. It was a date at Nadine’s, three and a half years ago, the summer of—”
“Wait a second.” He faces me completely. “All of this? All of this about Bobby … is over one … single … friggin’ date y’all had?”
Now I look at him. “You make it sound a certain way.”
“It is a certain way. That must have been one very astounding and impressionable date, to have left such a mark on your soul.”
“It didn’t leave a mark.”
“I mean, were the filet mignons made of gold? Is Bobby’s dick made of gold? Did he—?”
“Nothing was made of gold.” I clutch my mug tighter. “It’s just that before that date, I never bothered much with pursuing guys or making moves. My love life didn’t matter to me. And I haven’t had any dates since. With no prospects to speak of in Fairview, and with my only recent experience being an interrupted dinner with Bobby, I had nothing else to focus on. For years after that date, I was left to think about what could’ve happened if something came out of that night with Bobby. All I was left with were my dreams.”
“So … you’ve just been sittin’ out there in Fairview torturing yourself with the what-if game all this time …?”
“And the moment I show up here, I meet you, I meet Cole, I see Bobby for the first time since that night … It’s all a lot.”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t know how to behave or how to act … what’s right or wrong to say or do.” I sigh. “I’m a bit lost with all of this.”
He puts his hand on my back and starts to rub. After a mere second and a half, he abruptly stops, seems to rethink his impulse, then gently withdraws his hand back to his lap. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, it felt nice,” I blurt out, startling myself.
“Really?”
I experience one moment of sheer panic, recalling in vivid detail my adventures with imaginary naked Samuel last night. The feel of my hand down my pants. The swishing noise of the sheets. The impending pleasure that rushed toward me with every stroke of myself as I peered into Samuel’s beautiful, hungry eyes.
“Y-Yeah,” I answer.
His hand gently returns to slowly rubbing circles on my back. With each circle, my body reacts with electrical pulses that race to my neck, to my chest, to the tips of my fingers, which still clutch the hot mug of perfectly sweetened coffee.
“I was serious, y’know. About the wingman thing.”
I was halfway in a trance with his back rubbing until he spoke. “What do you mean?”
“If you need someone to commiserate with. Confide in. I have very little left to do around this place, so it isn’t gonna be long before Nadine forgets I’m even here. And if you say no again,” he reminds me, anticipating my answer, “you can still change your mind down the road. It’s an open-ended offer.”
He’s really persistent.
Also, his hand feels really good.
I fight an urge to lean into his chest, let his arm slide around me, and enjoy his caring embrace.
Then the words fall from my lips: “He’s taking me out today.”
His hand stops. “He?”
“Cole.”
A moment passes. “Oh.” Then he resumes rubbing, but now it seems distracted.
“He, um …” Should I really be sharing this? Why am I sharing this? Why now, after he just offered his companionship again? “He suggested it last night, just before we parted ways. He thought I’d like to get away from the house, grab a bite, get to see the town.”
“I tried to get you away from this big ol’ house and show you the town.” He glances tentatively at me, then sighs and throws his gaze elsewhere. “Sorry. Go on.”
“He should be here in a little bit. To pick me up.”