Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Why, why, why, is the insta-boner a thing whenever she’s near?
If it gets any harder, I’m going to have to leave or make a “there’s a tool I could demolish the deck with” joke, which I would never do. Ever. Especially not in front of Nanny. Or Remi. Or the dog. Or thin air and the world, vast and distant at large.
“Oh. Hey, Van. I didn’t know you’d be helping back here.” I can’t see her eyes, but something a little too bubbly in her voice tells me that she did indeed know I’d be back here because Nanny probably planned this all out. “I just came over to help with the flower gardens. I’ve got a car full of flowers and dirt.”
“Oh, bless you, sweetheart!” Nanny races over, practically skipping, to throw her arms around Remi. She hugs Nanny back softly, and then Curly Cookie races across the yard and pounces on them both, his little rat tail going full force, and they include him—slobbery, farting, hairy critter with death breath that he is.
I’m just over here, minding my business, awkward as hell, and damn it…I think maybe the twinge going off in my chest so hard that I almost want to reach up and massage the spot is probably loneliness. It’s incredible how watching people be happy and close to one another can make a person feel isolated like nothing else. Fuck my life multiplied with a heart attack since that’s roughly what the ache in my chest is probably going to translate into.
“I’m going to head into the house and make us some lemonade. Sullivan, can you help Remi unpack her car?” She winks at the end, and it’s official. She totally planned this. Now she’s making her great escape into the house to produce some kind of lemonade that will take her eight hours to make.
I know all of Nanny’s tricks.
She doesn’t give me time to back out. She calls Curly Cookie and goes skipping up the broken-ass deck like it’s not two seconds away from total annihilation and then in through the patio doors.
I raise a hand and run it through my hair, messing up the sticky strands. I’m pretty much a sweaty mess right now, and shit, Remi is standing there so tidy and perfect without a speck of dirt on her. The thought of messing up her pretty red rubber boots and smudging her jeans, her T-shirt, or her gorgeous creamy skin with dirt from the garden gets me…Rock. Fucking. Hard.
I want to punch myself. In fact, I want to dick-punch myself. I’m probably going to need to dick-punch myself to get the situation under control.
And still, I’m just standing here, overthinking this and turning what I want to say over and over and over in my head until the words just won’t come out.
“Umm, I parked in front.” Remi peeks over my shoulder to the second sagging gate in the worst part of the fence, which overlooks the back alley. “It would probably be easier if I pulled around back?” I ogle her like an imbecile until she clears her throat and says, “Um, okay. Yup. Just going to go drive around back now. If you could open the gate for me, that would be awesome. I really don’t need that much help. It’s only like thirty bags of soil and six hundred trays of flowers. I borrowed my parents’ minivan and swapped out my car with them since I knew it would be a big load.” She suddenly looks horrified, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the big load statement. I have to fight back a grin. “I can handle it myself,” she squeaks, and turning around, she bolts out of the backyard the way she came in.
My god, I have never felt like more of a useless twit, and this is coming from a guy whose wife ran off with twin Swedish bodybuilders. This is coming from a guy whose father—
Thankfully, I don’t have to think about it since the rattling sounds of the vehicle of death cough and sputter and clang its way down the alley and appear on the other side of the fence. I haven’t moved. I’ve just stood right here like a log stuck in a bog. I need to get that gate open. Useful. I want to be useful to Remi. Talk. I want to talk to her. Move. I want to walk forward and do all those things. Why won’t my body just cooperate?
“Fuck-us, Sullivan!” Nanny screeches out the open kitchen window. Damn it. She’s watching this whole thing play out. “Go and get the gate.”
I guess that’s what I need to get my mojo moving. I break out of my invisible concrete barrier and get the gate open just in time to see Remi walk in with two huge bags of dirt thrown over her shoulder. She already has the most adorable smudge of black earth on her cheek. One that I’d love to brush away for her. But no, I won’t do that because she’s Remi—Kimmy’s best friend for life and a life-long family friend. Also, because I’m in no position to offer anyone much of anything other than the burned-out, chewed-up husk of my heart that Tina left behind.