Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Chandra
I walk around the bookstore much earlier than I should be, like I’m waiting for my date to arrive. This is ridiculous. The clock hasn’t even struck eight yet, and we open at nine, but I tell myself there are things I need to do to occupy myself.
It has nothing to do with needing to see him again.
I yawn hugely, my eyes watering, as I make coffee. Last night, I came home with my mind teeming with ideas for my book, and I wrote long and hard until the wee hours of the morning. Today will be a long day.
I had to do it, though. I had to capture the memory of what he did to me. How it felt. How it awakened in me the need for more. And writing my own, controlled world of love and romance quiets the inner voice that plagues me with memories of my past.
So I wrote until I fell into a short, deep sleep, more like a nap than anything, and when I woke I needed to see him.
It took a little finagling to get his number out of Marla, but eventually she caved. My hands shook as I texted, but I needed to at least make some contact.
My heart soared when he responded so quickly.
What are you doing? I mentally berate myself.
I’m acting like an impulsive girl, not the self-contained woman I’ve tried so hard to become. This is crazy.
The only people for me are the mad ones.
I grab a broom and sweep the floor while the comforting, fragrant scent of coffee permeates the air. The floor’s immaculate, though, as Marla keeps it in pristine condition, and I’m only sweeping away imaginary dirt. My hands shake, and I need to keep myself occupied. I sweep the imaginary dirt into the dustpan and dump nothing into the trash barrel, then grab a feather duster and brush the dust-free tops of the books on display in front when the doorbell jingles and my heart nearly leaps straight out of my chest.
He’s here. God, he’s here, standing right in the doorway wearing a knit cap pulled down tight, blue eyes glinting at me in the early morning light. His lips quirk up and he gives me a little salute. Damn, he looks so good like that, all masculine and sexy and rugged. A delicious thrill shivers through me.
“Well aren’t you a picture.” The deep rumble of his voice rakes over my skin and coaxes a smile out of me.
I look down at myself on instinct. I’m wearing a burgundy sweater, black leggings that hug my curves, and knee-length leather boots. My cheeks flush.
“Thanks?”
“No question. Just thanks is good. Listen, that front walk needs a good shovel and icing. Whoever plowed it did a terrible job.”
“I know,” I say, “But I don’t know where she keeps the shovel. I looked.”
“I know where it is.”
I don’t like that he knows where Marla’s shovel is. It feels too familiar, too domestic. I ignore the stab of jealousy that hits me in the gut and grab my coat off the hook behind the counter. “I’ll help.”
He raises a brow. “No, you won’t. I’ve got this. I’ll take some of that coffee when I get back in though.” Shooting me a wink, he opens a little closet I never even noticed and removes a shovel and a bucket of ice melt. I don’t like him going back out, and I take a step toward him, but he only shakes his head at me. It’s enough to get me to stay where I am.
I forgot what it was like to be with a man who bosses me around like he does. Whose natural instincts are to protect and be chivalrous. Women say that chivalry is dead, but being around Axle, I know it’s not. When I knew him before, he always carried the heavy bags, held doors open for me, pulled out chairs and made sure I stayed dry when it rained. Some would find it overbearing. I loved it. And now that he’s back, I can tell he hasn’t really changed. He’s grown up a little, and I have, too, but he’s still who he always was at the core.
I grab the duster and go to the front window, swiping at imaginary smudges before I wipe a peep hole and look out. He’s hunched over, scraping at the icy snow by the entrance until he gets to bare ground, little by little removing every inch of it, then he shakes ice melt over the freshly-shoveled surface. An older man walks by, walking with tentative footsteps. Axle looks up, says something to him, then reaches for the man’s elbow to steady him. He helps him until he gets his footing, then watches until the man’s out of sight. My heart warms. Even when I knew him seven years ago, he was protective of everyone and anyone. It was partly why our affair was so hard on him, because he felt as if he’d let down the people he’d sworn to protect and care for. And in a way, he did.