Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Such a librarian,” I tease.
“You can take the girl out of the library. You can’t take the library out of the girl.”
While the goodies are baking, she reads the promo material in the kitchen as I finish packing my bag. When I return to the kitchen, I lift my nose and inhale the sweet, doughy scent. It almost smells as good as her.
“You’re like a dog,” she says with fondness. “And I mean that with great affection.”
“I like dogs,” I say. “So I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“I keep meaning to ask about the dog tattoo on your wrist.”
I look down at it, running a finger along the inked silhouette. “I always wanted to adopt one. My dad said it would never fit my lifestyle as a hockey player.”
She frowns. “That sucks. But I kind of get it.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say. “Guess I showed him. I got a permanent one.”
She laughs. “You sure did.” She offers me a baked good, then recaps the important parts of the promo with the Las Vegas team, the Sabers. The first game we’re playing on this road trip is against them, and we’re taking part in the team’s recycling initiative. As I take a bite of the cinnamon sugar puff pastry, she reviews the details Everly sent over on the recycling bins the Sea Dogs and the Sabers are delivering together tomorrow morning around town.
“This is good,” I say, with a foodgasm-esque moan after a bite.
“The pastry?” she asks, lifting her phone to take another picture.
“Yeah, but also you reviewing the details.” My brain appreciates hers so much.
She lowers her phone and sets it down with a pleased smile. “Good. Also, it’s cool that you’re doing this—the team and you. We have some green-centric initiatives coming up at the library. Makes me think of another item on the list.”
“Volunteer. Number six,” I say, skipping over number five, since she’s brought up the subject of number six.
“We’ll have to figure out what that would be. You sure you’re up for it? It’s probably not just a one-time thing.”
That’s one of the many things I like about challenge number six. “Yeah, I am,” I say, but we shouldn’t linger on all those things right now with the clock ticking closer to my flight. I nod toward her room, where she keeps the folded sheet of paper. “We need to cross off eat dessert for breakfast though.”
“We do. We’re forty percent of the way through,” she calls out as she hustles to her room.
“You can math,” I say dryly.
But not only is she right, that benchmark also feels right, given how long she’s been here in San Francisco and the time she still has left in the city. Given what’s still to come on the list too. There’s plenty of time to finish it though. No rush.
Seconds later, she returns with the paper and a pen. She hands them both to me. “It was easy for me. You cross it off. I’m proud of you.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “For eating?”
“Yes! Do it.”
Unfolding the list carefully, I spread the paper out on a freshly cleaned section of the counter. This piece of paper feels like an artifact, a precious heirloom that should be treated with care.
I lift the pen but don’t cross the item off right away. I consider the list again, the reason she has it, the love behind it. The gift her aunt gave her—a way not just to remember her, but to move on, to keep on living.
“Maybe she wanted to give you a road map for life without her—a good life,” I add for emphasis, looking at Josie and reaching for a strand of fallen hair, tucking it behind her ear. “For the way to move on. By giving you the way through.”
She takes a big breath, nodding, perhaps considering that, then meets my eyes. Hers are shining faintly, but a hint of a smile forms on her lips. “Maybe she was,” Josie says thoughtfully. “And maybe she wanted me to have fun too.”
“Did you? Have fun?” But I don’t want it to sound like I’m fishing for sex compliments. I try to backpedal with, “Baking I mean.”
She rolls her eyes as she roams a hand up my arm, curling it around the sunburst that starts on my biceps and climbs over my shoulder. “Baking was so much fun,” she says dryly.
“So much fucking fun,” I say, getting her completely.
“Now, cross it off, Wes.”
I turn my focus back to the list.
Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.
Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)
Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.
Eat dessert for breakfast.
I cross off the fourth one. And the thing is—I feel a little like a scofflaw. A lot like a rule-breaker. And it’s seriously fun. After I put down the pen, I hold up the flaky treat, dusted in sugar and spice, take another bite, then chew. When I’m done, I sigh the most satisfied sigh. “And I don’t feel guilty.”