Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“No prob. I’m ready to call it a night myself. This goat business has me wanting to turn in earlier than Granny.” I stand up and stretch, willing myself not to waste the delicious beer. I managed to drink it down halfway while he does the same. “All that bike riding wears a girl out, too.”
Quinn cocks his head.
“I don’t want this to end. I just need it to,” he says, this weird chill in his voice I can’t decipher as he fishes through his wallet to pay the tab.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, already on my way to the door.
At least I didn’t spill my guts about how disappointing my life has been. Then I’d really look like a double idiot. Probably as stupid and naive as I’d looked when I saw Jean-Paul’s phone lit up with flirty texts and kissy-faced, half-naked pics of Queen Bitch Madeline Shafer.
“Seriously, I was having fun tonight. I wanted to catch up,” Quinn says as he opens the door for me. “Can we do this again? After I’ve taken care of business?”
Jesus, do I look that fragile?
I shouldn’t be this disappointed, or this suspicious that he’s just trying to be nice in that oh-so-gentlemanly Faulkner way, but I just can’t help it.
My love life—if you can call it that—has been riddled with too much cloak-and-dagger stuff for this lifetime.
So is it any wonder I sense at least three meanings to every sentence out of his mouth?
Ugh. Am I really letting love woes rub off on Quinn, though?
Good Lord, I need help.
“Tory?” he calls my name again because I haven’t said a word.
Part of me wants to smack myself. The other part is just hurt. Bewildered. Self-pitying.
“Sure, sure, I was just running my schedule through my head,” I lie. “Uncle Dean says he has a long list of customers lined up for the goats. Add that to Granny’s schedule, all the little things she needs help with, and I can’t say when I’ll be available. But thanks for the drink. It was nice seeing the legendary Purple Bobcat.”
He gives me a firm smile but says nothing. Almost like he can taste the bitter steam rolling off me.
We arrive at his truck and I open the door, climbing in.
A tense silence fills the space as Quinn buckles his seat belt and starts the engine.
I stare at the flashing neon purple sign of a big winking bobcat as he backs the truck up and then pulls onto the highway.
“So,” he ventures, his eyes fixed on the road. “You were telling me about your dance career back home. Do you still love tearing up the floor? Or stage? Or fuck, whatever dancers dance on?”
I shrug, fighting back a smile. Mainly because it’s another loaded question.
I’m not sure if I loved it since I was little. Long before the pressure, the weeks full of practice, all the milkshakes I had to skip to stay fit as a grasshopper for my bulldog teachers.
“As much as anyone can love dancing seven days a week,” I say, brushing a loose strand of hair back over my ear.
“Damn, it was that time consuming?” his eyes light up as they flick over, twin emeralds in the sunset.
“Worse when we were on tour. I might do eight or more hours straight between warm-ups and shows.”
“On tour? What, like Broadway?”
I wince at hearing my broken dream destination.
“No, never Broadway, but other big shows. We did Chicago, Boston, L.A., Miami, St. Louis, New Orleans. I think I must’ve gotten a few whiplash tours of the entire country. Too bad we never stuck around a day or two after the shows to enjoy it.”
I sigh, hating how hard it is to rip myself out of poor me central.
“Pretty impressive, lady,” he says, genuine excitement in his voice. “You must miss it like hell.”
That’s the worst part.
Ever since Wicked Witch Madeline arranged an “unfortunate” accident...
I haven’t missed it enough.
No. I don’t miss the pressure. I don’t miss the deadlines. I damn sure don’t miss Jean-Paul’s two-timing, wine collector ass.
“Absolutely,” I tell him firmly, purely for show.
If this is the last ride I ever get in Quinn Faulkner’s truck, I won’t have him thinking I’m a loser.
“Bet this feels like the longest summer of your life, huh?” he asks, a smirk pulling at his lips. “You’re looking forward to getting back to it ASAP, I’m sure. I’ve only been back in Dallas for roughly a year and a half and it already feels like an eternity. Time just moves slower out here.”
“I’m looking forward to my knee being a hundred percent functional,” I say.
Maybe then I can get on with life.
Being in limbo sucks, but oddly enough, I’ve felt like I’ve been drifting for years.
“How about you?” I need to get the subject off me. “What are your plans once you sell your grandpa’s place? Will your sabbatical end? You’ll go back to the FBI?” Shaking my head at my own rambling, I add, “Nothing like twenty questions, right?”