Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
I’m scrolling through Netflix trying to find a new series to binge-watch when my phone pings with a message.
Number 18: How’s your day going?
Me: Just hanging around the house. Yours?
I hesitate before hitting send. Replying like this opens up an all-new category of texting. Do I want that? I have to admit Landon has surprised me. He came back to the shelter yesterday and, in no time, had everything on my to-do list completed. Of course, it helped that Aubrey was like a mother hen not letting me get out of my chair. Needless to say, with his help, I got caught up on all of my busy work that there never seems to be enough time in the day to complete. Hence the reason I’m bored. I normally bring it home with me to work on during the weekend. I don’t mind it, and I know Aubrey appreciates me doing so as she does the same thing. I try to take on that role as she has a husband and a little boy at home. I’m just me. My mom is back home in Georgia, and my dating life is nonexistent at the moment.
Number 18: Same. How about some dinner?
Me: Already in the Crock-Pot.
I’m glad that this is the truth and I don’t have to lie or just blatantly shut him down again. I would have thought he would have given up by now.
Number 18: Perfect. What time should I be there?
Me: …
Number 18: Come on, Em. A man’s gotta eat.
His text is followed by a picture of the inside of what I assume is his refrigerator. It’s empty except for a carton of eggs, a gallon of milk, a few bottles of water, a couple of cans of White Claw, and a few bottles of Gatorade.
Me: I’m thinking you need to go grocery shopping.
Number 18: Will you go with me?
Me: No.
Number 18: I didn’t think so. I’ll be there in an hour. Do I need to bring anything?
Me: You’re not invited.
I type the words, but I admit he’s not the worst company I’ve ever had. I was looking forward to a weekend just to relax, but it’s kind of lonely here all weekend, all alone.
Number 18: I’ve got dessert covered.
Me: Landon!
Number 18: Gotta go. See ya soon.
I don’t bother to text him back. I know he won’t reply. I also know he’s going to be at my door in an hour, possibly less if our previous interactions and his tendency to be earlier is his usual MO.
I look down at the leggings I have on. They have little puppy golden retrievers on them, and the puppies are wearing Christmas hats. Sure, it’s summertime in California, but my mom bought them for me two Christmases ago and they’re super soft and comfy and they remind me of home. My shirt is a simple black tank top that shows the straps of my sports bra. My hair is a knotted mess of curls on top of my head, my feet are bare, as is my face since I didn’t bother with makeup. I start to freak out then decide this is a good thing. He’s going to see me slumming it, in my loungewear and run far, far away. I refuse to be anyone but myself, even for the sexy quarterback.
Sure enough, forty-five minutes later there’s a knock at the door. I stand from my nest on the couch, and I say nest because of all the blankets and pillows—I take lounging very seriously. Pulling open the door, I take in the sight before me. Landon is wearing basketball shorts, a skintight T-shirt, and slides. In his hand is a box from a local bakery and a bouquet of flowers.
“Are you going to invite me in, Emma?” His husky voice is laced with amusement.
“I told you that you weren’t invited.” I try to sound stern, but it’s hard when the man brings dessert and flowers. Oh, and let’s not forget he looks good enough to eat.
“Come on now.” He grins, and those damn dimples wink at me.
I was always going to let him in. I just had to make him think it was an inconvenience. Stepping back, I give him ample space to enter the house before closing the door behind him.
“Is that dinner I smell?” he asks, making his way to the kitchen to deposit the bakery box. He turns to face me. “Do you have a vase?”
“Yes, and I do.” Reaching under the kitchen sink, I pull out a vase and add some water. I place it on the counter, and Landon carefully unwraps the flowers and slides them into the vase. I watch him and his big hands, and those strong arms as he arranges the flowers until he’s satisfied. They’re beautiful, and my heart tips over in my chest when I think about what it means when a man brings a woman flowers. Sure, it can be a kind, friendly gesture, but in most cases, that’s not it. They want more—romantically. He’s making it increasingly difficult to remember that he’s in this for the chase. Or is he?