Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I pause to look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean…I’m sensing you haven’t really had to lift a finger growing up.”
Obviously she’s correct—I didn’t have to lift a finger growing up. We had cooks and gardeners and maintenance crew to do those things for us. We had a cleaning staff, tutors, and…
In a nutshell, my parents weren’t doing my sister or me any favors preparing us for the real world—something I’ve grown to resent. I can’t even fucking fix a furnace, or unclog a toilet at two in the morning (another thing I had to google), or use a Skilsaw when I wanted to build a shelf in the spare room I use as an office.
I stand, crossing my arms, affronted. “Based on what?”
Her eyes dart around the room then land on the expensive faux fur throw blankets draped over the back of my couch. My mother bought them for me.
“Um…” Teddy bites her bottom lip. “Based on the fact that you probably have a cleaning lady. I bet someone does your laundry and grocery shopping.”
“I do my own grocery shopping.” Most of the time.
“But you have a cleaning lady?”
My lips pull into a tight line.
“Oh my god, stop it. You do not!” Teddy practically shouts into the otherwise silent room. “Do you? Stop. Do you?”
My cheeks flush; I can feel the heat rising up my neck, suddenly embarrassed by my privilege.
“Yes,” I grind out. “Can we not talk about it?”
Another long stretch of silence follows—and for a bit, I think she is going to say something more about it. Am pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t. Relieved, actually, when instead she laughs and says, “That would explain why there is no pee around your toilet bowl.”
I pee mostly in the toilet, thank you very much miss know-it-all.
I walk farther into the living room, knowing she’s going to trail behind after me. “I can totally take you home if you don’t think you can hack it in this cold house.”
She glances down at the leggings and hooded sweatshirt she changed into when we got home. Pulls at the thick material and huffs. “I don’t have anything on underneath—no layers, and these leggings are thin. I think I might actually die.”
“It’s called a blanket.” I lean forward, nabbing one of the fancy throws from the end of the couch, toss it at her. “Use it.”
Teddy huffs again when it pelts her in the face, throwing herself into the corner of the couch. “Fine, I’ll stay.”
“I can take you home if it’s going to be a problem,” I say firmly, repeating the offer.
“No, no, I’ll get over it. Just let me be super dramatic about it for a few more seconds—then I’ll drop the subject.”
I plop down next to her and palm the remote control, pointing it at the television while she sighs and squirms on the cushions next to me, making a bit of a racket, trying to get comfortable. Makes one or two brrr sounds.
Shivers, finally settling on her ass, arms wrapped around her legs.
The look I shoot her is one of exasperation. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I have a few more seconds, remember? Let me be.”
I grin, shaking my head. Fuck she’s sweet.
I jump when she uncurls, her feet sliding across the couch cushions in my direction, moving under the blankets like a snake, icy skin grazing mine and making me yelp.
“Get your cold feet off of me! Warn a person, Christ.”
Teddy laughs. “Let me stick them under your thighs. Please? They’re frozen.”
I can feel her wiggling them before she pokes my thigh with her big toe.
“Jesus, you should go to the doctor and have that checked out.”
“Shut up.” She laughs. “They’re not that bad.”
“Yes they are.” They really are—cold, that is, and they’re cooling down my mesh athletic pants where she’s brazenly slid them under my leg. “You clearly have poor circulation.”
“I do not.” She doesn’t sound concerned, not one bit.
“First thing Monday morning, I’m taking you to the clinic.”
I love hearing her laugh. I love the way her feet are tucked under my legs, body stretched out next to mine, our size difference conspicuous. But nice.
I might be a goddamn giant compared to her, but hell if I don’t feel protective because of it.
We stay like this for over an hour, wrapped up in furry blankets, talking through the movie, chatting and laughing until we’re both yawning.
“I don’t know if I’m tired or suffering from hypothermia,” she quips, dragging the blanket to her chin.
“Both. Definitely both,” I tease, admiring the bridge of her nose backlit by the kitchen light. It slopes gently, the tip of it pert. Cute.
The bow of her lips, bottom one full.
Wisps of hair, gathered up into a topknot just like mine—yeah, we fucking match—some falling out in messy disarray.
She doesn’t give a shit what she looks like in front of me, doesn’t care because she’s comfortable.