Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“We’re just glad to have you!” The woman pulled back and sent me a curious smile.
“Mrs. Kendrick, this is Nixon Winters.” Zoe’s shoulders tensed.
“Nixon”—Mrs. Kendrick extended her hand, and I shook it—“I’m so glad our little Zoe brought you home for a nice long visit. We’ve all been worried that she’d work herself single, but you’re just as cute as a button.”
I grinned as Zoe turned at least five shades of pink.
“No, Mrs. Kendrick, we’re not—”
Wrapping my arm around Zoe’s small waist, I tugged her close. “We’re not sure how long our visit will be, but I’m enjoying every minute of it.” Thoroughly. She fit against me exactly how I’d pictured, tucking neatly under my arm.
Well. Damn.
Mrs. Kendrick gave us that gushy look I usually despised, and I smiled even bigger. “Well, you’re a gorgeous couple. Now here, take a pen and get to bidding.”
“Where is Mrs. Whitcomb’s?” Zoe asked quietly.
Mrs. Kendrick glanced around as if Zoe’d asked for the nuclear launch codes. “Table six, and she’s up a good fifty…maybe more by now.” Her lips thinned.
“Gotcha.”
We took off down the first aisle, and Mrs. Kendrick greeted the next group.
“I can’t believe you.” Zoe shoved me off. “Now people are going to think we’re together.”
“I quit giving a fuck what people thought about me a long time ago, Shannon. You should try it, sometime.”
She shot me a glare, then bent over the table halfway down the aisle and scribbled on a sheet taped to the plastic table. Fuck. Me. Her ass really was a masterpiece, and those jeans cupped her curves so deliciously I nearly sank my teeth into my fist.
“Tell me about the douchey ex.” And tell me why he got to touch you.
“Why do you care?” She slipped the paper into the designated shoebox, then straightened.
“Because you lied.”
“I what?”
I leaned down so our foreheads nearly touched. “You. Lied.”
“I don’t recall us ever having a discussion about the people we’ve slept with.” She arched a brow but didn’t go for the low blow of mentioning my list.
“I do recall you saying that you don’t do musicians.” What I couldn’t recall was the number of women I’d slept with. My stomach rolled slightly, and for the first time, that fact…bothered me.
“I said I don’t do rock stars, and, honey, Peter Whitcomb might have a nice set of hands, but he’s no rock star.”
Whitcomb. The same as the cake lady? How small was this town?
“According to Rolling Stone, I have magic hands.” I wiggled my fingers and gave her my best smolder.
That did it. The ice thawed as she fought her smile and lost, finally shaking her head. “That might be the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said. Now pick a cake, and let’s bid. It all goes to charity.”
The band started outside the tent, and yep—that low E was flat as hell. I hoped, for Zoe’s sake, he’d been better with his hands on her than on that poor guitar.
Then a cat died—or he started singing, it could have been either. The song changed around row two, but not for the better. I’d never thought much about the thickness of tent exteriors, but I would have paid to relocate to a concrete bunker.
She cringed as he missed a high note, playing it off as she examined a cake.
“This one?” I suggested around row three, motioning toward a chocolate one.
“Nope. That’s Mrs. Armstrong’s cake, and Mr. Armstrong always bids for hers. See? She’s sitting right at fifty-five dollars, which is how many years they’ve been married.”
“How would you know that?” I studied her soft expression, and that ache flared again, right in the middle of my chest.
“Small town,” she answered with a shrug, like that explained it all.
Fifty-five years, and he still bids on her cakes. What was it like to love like that? To spend fifty-five years with one person and never grow bored? To let someone in so completely that they knew everything about you?
We rounded the row and started into the fourth aisle, then the fifth.
“Tell me about the ex,” I repeated, placing a bid on a random cake that hadn’t gotten any yet. When I lifted my head, I found her watching me, like she was trying to figure me out. “Come on.”
“Nothing to say.” We made it to table six. “We dated for a couple of years, and then he decided Laura Fletcher looked better in her cheerleading skirt than I did in jeans.” She stopped in front of a nice, chocolate, tiered, professional-looking cake. “Would have been nice if he’d told me before prom, instead of letting me find them in the back of his truck, but whatever. Water under a bridge and all that.”
My muscles locked. “He cheated on you at prom? Who the fuck does that?”
“Shh!” Her eyes flew wide and darted toward the middle-aged couple bidding behind us.