Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
If something comes up? Like if I’m pregnant?
He’s not giving it to me so that I will call him. That hurt. Actually, that killed.
My stomach turns as I whisper, “Right.” I shove the piece of paper into my pocket.
Skirting him, I step into the living room, pick up my top and jacket, and put both on quickly before grabbing my bag.
I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist. I stop midstep. I swear I see hurt in his eyes when I look up at him, but I brush that thought aside, knowing I must be seeing things.
“Call me,” he says softly.
I swallow. “Sure.”
I shake off his hold, then head for the door. I try to make it look like I’m not running away when that is exactly what I’m doing. As soon as I’m outside and on the sidewalk, I hail the first cab I see, get in the backseat, and let out the breath I’ve been holding. I give the driver directions. Thankfully, the morning rush hour is over so it doesn’t take me long to get uptown.
I arrive at work a little less than thirty minutes late, unlock my office door, and head inside, flipping on the lights as I go. My dad and I painted the front of my office a calming, soft blue that goes well with the abstract art prints I framed and hung on the walls. Across from my desk, against the opposite wall, are two golden-brown chairs with cool-looking wooden arms. They match the coffee table in front of them, where several magazines are splayed out. Blowing out a breath, I head toward my desk.
Days like today, I’m thankful I’m my own boss so I don’t have anyone to answer to. Taking the leap by starting my own massage-therapy business was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done, but so far there hasn’t been a day I’ve regretted it.
I love what I do. I love making people feel good and helping them relax. When I was younger, I used to get migraines so bad I would become physically ill. The doctors couldn’t do anything for me, so my mom did some research and found out that a lot of people were able to find relief with massage. I was skeptical, but after my first session, I left feeling normal and clear-minded—unlike when I took medication. That day, I became a believer. I knew that I wanted to help people the way I had been helped.
Once I get some incense burning, I take off my coat. I drape it over the back of my chair, then take a seat at my desk. I rest my forehead on the cool wood as tears fill my eyes again. I shouldn’t care as much as I do that things with Wesley ended the way they did, but that does nothing to stop the stabbing pain I feel in my chest.
It takes longer than I’m comfortable with to get myself under control, but after a few deep breaths, I sit up and pull his number out of my pocket. I try to memorize it before opening the top drawer in my desk and dropping it in, hoping I will never have to use it. I dig my cell phone out of my pocket and plug it in to charge, then head for the bathroom to clean up.
I have a few clients coming in today, so I figure that will help keep my mind busy until I leave the office. Then I’ll head out to visit my parents and sisters on Long Island for the Thanksgiving holiday. I’m now looking forward to going—they will be the distraction I so desperately need.
Standing in my parents’ kitchen the next morning, I lean against the counter with a cup of coffee in my hand, listening to my mom blabber on about the new neighbor who moved in a couple of houses down. Mom’s working on the pies for Thanksgiving tomorrow.
“He’s single. Maybe you could go over and introduce yourself to him,” she suggests, looking at me expectantly.
I hear Libby giggle from her perch on one of the stools at the island in front of us. She would think it’s funny that our mom is trying to hook me up with a fifty-year-old man she knows nothing about. It’s not happening to her.
“I’m not interested in dating anyone right now, Mom,” I mutter.
I take a sip of coffee.
“Are you a lesbian?”
I almost spit it out but instead suck it down the wrong pipe and choke on it. “What?” I cough, wipe away the coffee dribbling from my bottom lip, and grab a paper towel so I can wipe the rest off my hand and shirt.
“You haven’t been on a date in forever. I never hear you talk about any men that you are interested in. I’m just wondering if maybe you’re—”