Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Chapter 8
BEN
“Hope, wake up.”
Rousing Sleeping Beauty from her slumber would be easier than waking up Hope. This is seriously a woman who, when she hits the hay, that’s it. Lights out, show’s over, no encores. She turns over, grumbling about five more minutes, which I would give her except the clock’s ticking away the seconds. I’ve been up for a while now—already gotten dressed, run out for doughnuts, and double-checked that the car’s packed for the day.
“Wake up!” I shout-slash-screech, letting a little bit of my trademark growl into it.
Hope shoots straight up in bed, wearing a nightgown of her own this time. It’s a slinky, silky white number I’m sure was intended to be worn on her honeymoon, but as gorgeous as she looks in it, I think I preferred her in the Midnight Destruction T-shirt.
“Ahhh!” she shrieks in a tone that would be very recordable for a good thrash track, her eyes flying open and her hair flying up wildly. She’s adorably messy in the mornings, like she’s been fighting to sleep all night, but I know firsthand that she passes the fuck out and sleeps like the dead once she succumbs, not remembering full conversations.
“Good morning, beautiful. You’ve got ten minutes and we’re out the door.”
“Huh?” she sputters, likely not processing anything I said.
“Ten minutes,” I repeat, sticking to the important part now that she’s somewhat conscious.
“For what?”
I don’t answer, just close the door and wait for curiosity to get her moving. It works, because a few minutes later, she pads down the hall. “Where are we going? Am I dressed okay?” She holds her arms out to the side, letting me take a long look. What I see is much, much more than “okay.” She’s captivating and intriguing.
Her short, lightweight blue shorts are molded over her hips, making her legs look strong and long, while her oversize T-shirt is from a local 5K race sponsored by a dentist, and her tennis shoes are likely the ones she wore to complete that run. Her dark hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail at her crown; her face is bare, which makes her blue eyes pop, and her white smile is sparkling.
“You look perfect,” I tell her with a nod. “Get in the car.”
She’s excited as she follows the order, hopping with a tiny clap of her hands she probably thinks I can’t see. “Where are we going?” she asks again.
“It’s a surprise.” It’s all I’m going to tell her until we get there, and given the twinkle in her eyes, I think she likes surprises.
Thankfully, at oh-dark-thirty, there’s no one outside, so getting in the car is no biggie this time. I wonder if Hope would care as much, though, now that she knows people are on her side.
And there are people rooting for Hope. I talked to one last night to arrange this outing for her.
A few minutes later, we arrive at the lakeside boat launch.
“Hey! There’s Marcus!” Hope informs me, pointing and waving at a barrel-chested, gray-haired guy who’s standing on the dock beside a glittery turquoise boat. His dark eyes find Hope easily, and he waves back before his gaze warily cuts to me. One black slash of a brow raises as he considers me. “He’s the one who does the boat tours I told you about.”
My phone call last night with Marcus after Hope went to bed was interesting, to say the least. I’d started out asking about his sunrise boat tours, and he’d told me that his schedule this week was full, but something in his voice made me ask if that was only the case for tourists or if there might be a little leeway for a local who needed a new beginning. After a little conversation to confirm that he’s Team Hope—and a prayer that he was telling the truth about it—I booked the excursion.
“I know,” I say simply.
Hope gasps, realization dawning as her hands clasp beneath her chin. “Are we doing the sunrise trip?”
She looks so shocked . . . that I listened, that I remembered, that I arranged this for her? Or maybe all of the above, even though it’s such a little thing.
Moments later—after shaking hands with Marcus, loading up the boat, and giving one last glance around the parking area to check for incoming asshole ex-fiancés who might’ve been tipped off by lying boat operators—we’re sitting side by side on the bench that wraps around the bow of the boat, with Marcus standing behind us at the wheel. It’s cooler on the water, so I drape a blanket around our shoulders as we motor out over the lake, and Hope scoots closer to me. As we get farther and farther out, the lights of the dock disappear and darkness surrounds the boat.
Inky black; as above, so below. Until we rise again.