Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
As I walked over to answer it, I hoped it was her and prayed that it wasn’t. I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to send her away.
When I opened the door, there she stood, looking like an angel and holding two grocery bags in her hands. “Hi,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten yet, but I ended up making a lot of food and thought you might want some.”
“I could kiss you.” I meant it as a joke, but also, I was serious.
She grinned and wiggled a finger at me. “Ah, ah, ah. That’s against the rules. We’re friends, remember?” But there was a glint of mischief in her eye that hadn’t been there last night. It thrilled and terrified me at the same time.
“Come on in,” I said. “I haven’t eaten. I’m starving, but Paisley here doesn’t care.”
“Paisley, what’s wrong?” Emme stopped to kiss my daughter on her forehead. “Mmm, you smell nice. And you look so cute with your hair done. What is there to cry about?”
I followed Emme over to the kitchen, where she set the bags on the island and turned to me. “Do you want me to make you a plate now or put everything in the fridge for later?”
“Have you eaten already?” I asked, bouncing Paisley in my arms.
“No, but I don’t have to eat here. I can hold her while you eat and then go home for my dinner.”
“No, don’t do that. Stay. Eat with me. She’s been up for a while—maybe we can get her down and have a quiet dinner. Watch a movie or something.” It’s not really breaking the promise, I reasoned. She came here, I didn’t call her.
“You’re sure you’re not too tired?” She started taking things out of the bags—plastic containers full of pasta and sauce and meatballs and salad. “You look exhausted.”
“Thanks,” I said, my mouth watering at the sight of a bag of frozen garlic bread. “But I think that’s just how I look now. I’m fine.”
She laughed and turned on the oven to preheat. “Sorry this is frozen. I’m not much of a baker. More of a cook.”
“I’m in no position to complain, and it all looks amazing to me. My stomach has been growling all day.”
“Aww. Poor thing.” She patted my arm as she went by me to get to the cupboards where I kept bowls and plates. “I’ll make it better.”
“Can I make you a drink?” I asked. Actually at that moment, what I wanted to ask her was to move in with me, marry me, never leave me. But a drink was probably a better idea.
“Sure.”
“Glass of wine?”
“Perfect.”
I pulled a bottle of red from the beverage fridge and set it on the counter, but since I had Paisley in my arms it was Emme who opened it, took two glasses down from the cabinet, and poured. While she did that, I grabbed the little baby brush from the couch where I’d left it.
“I told my mother about her,” I said, taking a seat at one of the barstools at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. I balanced Paisley on one leg and gave her the brush, which she stuck right into her mouth. At least it quieted her down.
“You did?” Emme glanced at me over one shoulder as she stuck the pasta in the microwave. “How did it go? Was she upset?”
“She was, but pretty much anything upsets my mother. I’m hoping once the shock wears off she’ll be glad to have a grandchild to fuss over. It would give her something good to focus on, I think.”
“And your dad is gone?”
“Yeah. He died a few years back. Right before I moved in here, actually.”
“I’m sorry.” She stopped moving around and met my eyes. “Were you close?”
“Not very, but your dad is your dad.” I was weirdly tempted to talk more about my family, which was never the case, but the words stuck in my throat. I’d burdened her enough with my shit lately, anyway.
“This is where having supportive sisters comes in handy, I guess. Too bad you don’t have one of those.”
“Yeah.” Or a brother, I thought, wishing for the millionth time Adam was still alive. He’d be thirty now, like Emme. And he’d probably have just as big a heart. Much better for her than I would be.
“Want to borrow one of mine?” She flashed a smile at me as she stuck the bread in the oven. “I’ve got two, and one of them annoyed the crap out of me this morning. I’d loan her out for cheap, maybe even free.”
I laughed a little. “Which one, the therapist or the yoga teacher?”
“The therapist. Which might do you some good, actually. Have you thought about that at all? To help you deal with everything?”
“I haven’t thought about anything but sleep and baby poop for two days, with the occasional break for a work-related panic attack.” And, of course, occasionally picturing you naked.