Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Right as I’m setting the food on the island, Cole reappears. His hair is damp, the ends flicked up and out like he rubbed a towel willy-nilly over his head. I could never. The frizz would be extreme.
His white T-shirt strains at his chest, where his pecs seem intent on making the cotton give up the ghost, while his biceps do the same to the sleeves, hugging the muscles like a lover. Well-worn jeans are low-slung on his hips, and he walks toward me on bare feet looking like a model right off some grocery store checkout line magazine.
Dayumm!
I give myself a mental high-five for keeping that reaction in my head instead of letting it fall out of my mouth like I usually would. I’m not looking-looking, too loyal to Henry to disrespect him that way, but it’s not like Cole’s hiding his attractiveness. It’s obvious in the same way the sun is blinding in the sky.
“Smells good,” he says, eyeing the meal as he pulls out one of the barstools that ring the small island, but he doesn’t sit down.
I stand there stupidly until he looks pointedly from me to the seat. Surprised at the gentlemanly gesture, I jump. “Oh! Thank you. Henry isn’t big on chivalrous gestures so I’m not used to it, I guess.” I laugh at my own awkward confusion.
Cole sits beside me, a respectable distance between us. “You’ve mentioned him a couple times. Henry?”
Scooping a bite of soup, I explain, “My boyfriend. He’s coming up after he finishes a project. He’s a software engineer and got stuck fixing a bug his team can’t figure out. He’s good at working out the nuances of code and how to improve it. We’ve been together for almost a year, but he works a lot so I should probably adjust for that, in which case, it’s been . . . doo-doo-doo-doo . . .” I mimic tapping on an air calculator before concluding, “Twelve weeks.” I laugh at the joke, but Cole doesn’t so much as crack a smile.
“Harrumph.” It’s a mere sound, but I feel judged.
“We’re going to have a romantic vacation, so it’s a good thing you’re only going to be here for a few days,” I say with a wink. “Then next weekend, I have my cousin’s wedding to go to, which is going to be downright painful. Thank God for open bars, amiright?” Another joke, and it falls flat too.
Disappointed, I focus on my soup, and silence reigns while we eat for a few moments.
“People don’t surprise me. It’s a given. But you . . . I have no idea how, but you do,” he says.
He looks at me with clear eyes, seeming anything but confused, but he sounds sincere. Almost like he’s complimenting me? It definitely feels deeper than the superficial chatting I’ve been offering as a way to keep the conversation going one-handed.
“Thanks?”
Not offering more on the topic, he says, “I’ll take the couch. You can have the bed.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. If you’re paying, the least I can do is give you the bed,” I protest. “Besides, I have to warn you, I snore. Not a lot, like I don’t need a CPAP.” I put a clawed hand over my nose and mouth and make a sound imitating the machines that sounds a lot like schlooo-chuh before realizing how weird that sounds, and rush to explain. “But not a little, either, not like a tiny, cute puppy. Somewhere in between, I guess.”
His eyes narrow, and I wait for him to skip over my overshare. Instead, he offers, “My brother’s dog snores. He drools everywhere, and his paws flop around like he’s chasing squirrels in his dreams. All the while, snoring.” He’s saying ugly things about the animal, but it’s with amusement and affection. He even smiles, which completely changes his face. The crack in his straight, pressed lips is like the sun coming out from behind clouds on a stormy day.
I found it! His weak spot is dogs, apparently. I store the information away for future conversations.
“What’s his name?”
“My brother or the dog?” he clarifies.
“Either. Both,” I say eagerly. I want to keep him talking. I like listening to his voice. It’s deep and rumbly but smooth, like silk and gravel. And even when he’s talking about a dog, it feels meaningful.
“Peanut Butter, but we usually call him Nutbuster.” I assume he’s talking about the dog, not his brother, whose name he doesn’t offer. “So, you hurt your back with Mrs. Michaelson?”
I sense that he’s directing the conversation away from him, but I let him, telling him more about the woman I’ve come to care for even though she’s never spoken a word to me. But in my mind, she has a sassy personality, cares for her family, and offers great advice.