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)
Her lips lift like she’s trying to smile but doesn’t really feel it. I let my declaration sit with her, giving her time to process and find the silver lining I’m offering in the midst of her rain cloud. It’s nearly three silent minutes later, which in Janey time is at least fifteen, maybe twenty, when I feel a shift in her mood.
“It would be nice to not go alone,” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “And having a guy who looks like he walked off a book cover at my side wouldn’t hurt.” She crunches on a piece of bacon, chewing noisily as she thoughtfully looks me up and down, measuring and appraising my very existence. Straight-faced, she twirls a finger in the air, telling me to spin.
Amused, I stand and turn in a circle with my hands held out to the side.
After what feels like an eternity of her eyes tracing every inch of my body, her lips lift into a pleased smile. A real smile this time. One that I cherish because I’m a greedy bastard who feels like I had something to do with it.
“Will I do?” I taunt. She doesn’t have any other options, and let’s face it, we both know I look good.
“Are you sure? Like positively, undoubtedly certain?” she asks, her nose crinkled up apprehensively. “You’re volunteering to go into a den of wolves while slathered in meat juice. And all of the predators are hidden in cute little doggie costumes that make them seem harmless and fun.”
She doesn’t want to believe me. Trust must feel like a dangerous option after Henry’s betrayal. I get that. I nod, surer than I’ve ever been. She needs this.
“Just one question, then. Do you have a suit, or do we need to go into town to buy one?”
“That’s your only question?” I echo with a chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve got that covered.”
I can see the acceptance dawning on her face as her smile grows by degrees and her eyes brighten. “Oh, my God! Thank you so much,” she exclaims in relief as she jumps into my arms for the hug I halfway expected. “I can’t believe you’re willing to do this for me. You’re so sweet, and I really appreciate it. Anything you ever need, I’m your girl. I can be like a helper-spy and go into a women’s locker room or spa for you. Something like that, where you can’t go.” She points at herself like she’s the one to call on for that very specific, never-before-happened situation.
I have never been called sweet. Not a single time in my entire life, not even as a kid. But Janey thinks I am, and I’ve no desire to disavow her of the erroneous judgment, so to keep up appearances, I shift my hips, hoping she won’t notice what her innocent touch has done to me.
Pulling back, she drops to her flat feet and confesses, “I have to warn you, though, I wasn’t exaggerating. The wedding is going to be awful. I’m a positive Pollyanna type to a fault, but this is so bad that even I can’t find a single good thing about it. And I’ve tried hard. Like so bad that not even good cake will make up for it, and there’s a fair to good chance the cake will be gluten-free, organic cardboard too, so there’s not even that to look forward to.” She sticks her tongue out like she’s tasting the gross cake right now. “And, I can’t emphasize this enough, Paisley is horrible. I never know what to say to her, and on her wedding day? It’s not like I can say anything. So I’m glad you’ll be there. Maybe you can do that stone-cold glare you do?” She mimics a narrow-eyed scowl that looks remarkably hilarious on her usually smiling face.
I seamlessly drop into the expression she’s talking about, and she plants her hands on my cheeks and stares into my eyes, first right then left. “Yes! Like that! How do you do that? I need you to teach me your ways. That’d come in so handy with patients’ families when they get rowdy.”
She releases me and falls back to the stool, practicing a few glares. Unsuccessfully, I might add. The closest she comes to a scowl looks more like a pouty kitten.
“I think you have other talents,” I say gently as I sit beside her again.
Rolling her eyes, she steals a piece of bacon from my plate, having finished her own. Focusing quickly, she says, “Okay, if you’re gonna be my fake boyfriend—that sounds crazy, right?—we need to have our stories straight. Maybe we say you’re a doctor and we met at work? Or a fighter pilot? I’m sure they’ve seen Top Gun 2.0 and would eat that up. Or go with the obvious and say you’re a model.”