Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Now that really sounds like something from one of your romance novels,” I tease.
“Sounds exactly like Top-Notch Boyfriend. And listen, I wish my life were like my books. Alas,” he says, rises, then continues on his walk through the quaint ski town, “I need to jet. I have a call with my agent. Pretty sure he’s going to hound me about the status of my next book. Spoiler alert—the status is overdue. But think about saying something. Maybe this road trip is a chance to let the man know what’s been on your mind for the last few years.”
More like eight years, give or take.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but the problem is I already think about it too much.
I’d like to not think about River like that.
I’d like all these feelings to go away.
Sort of like how Goldilocks feels about food that’s not duck and tuna pate.
4
Owen
I exit my building a few minutes later, right as River wedges his Honda into a tiny spot. He maneuvers the sleek cherry-red car to the curb with the same kind of aplomb he demonstrates when making drinks.
Mmm. There is something sexy as fuck about a man who can parallel park on either side of the street with the same ease.
Just like there’s something sexy about a man who’ll give or take in bed.
Lingering on both images for a few seconds too long, I let out a happy sigh.
My eyes pop when I see the front seat of his car is empty. The black and white dog sits in the back.
River pushes open the passenger door from the inside. “I bargained with Delilah. I promised her steak if she’d let you ride shotgun,” he says, scratching her chin. She lifts it higher, leaning into the stroke, her eyes locked on River’s, never looking away.
I get you, girl. Oh yes, I do.
“Awww. I’m touched you negotiated on my behalf,” I say, getting into the car, and tossing my jacket to the back seat.
River lets go of the dog, cups the side of his mouth to whisper, “Don’t tell her, but you’re more interesting than she is.”
“Blasphemy, and I like it,” I say, setting my backpack and cooler on the floor near the dog. She dips her nose, sniffing, but doesn’t try to open the cooler. Well-trained—that’s Delilah. I stretch to stroke her soft head. “She looks like a little furry person sitting upright.”
River beams. “Be still, my beating heart. Complimenting my dog. You are officially my favorite person.”
And you’re mine.
I keep that thought to myself as I turn around, tug on the seatbelt and click it in.
When I raise my face, River’s fiddling with his Waze app. As he taps in his sister’s address in Petaluma, I steal a few seconds to stare shamelessly. His sun-streaked hair falls onto his face, and I want to push those strands off his forehead and say, Can’t you see better like that? He works the corner of his bottom lip with his teeth as he types, like concentrating on Echo’s location is mission-critical. Then, he lifts his hand and sweeps his hair off his forehead. The angle affords me an up-close view of his inked skin, since he’s pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, showing off the tattoos that cover his left arm. Black bands, sunbursts, a tree, a sparrow, and a rainbow band too. I want to trace them all with my fingertips, then my tongue, then my lips.
My chest twists.
TJ is right.
I’ve got to say something.
It’s going to eat me alive.
I’m surprised it hasn’t yet.
“All set,” River says, then drops his hand to the wheel. For a few seconds, his gaze travels down my body, then back up, slowing at my lips, then my eyes. He blinks, swallows, then flashes a bigger grin. “Oh, by the way, Grant asked if we’d stop at Declan’s mom’s cabin to do a few quick things to get it ready for their visit next weekend. Should take fifteen minutes tops.”
“Sounds good.”
“Excellent. Ready, then?”
Nope. Not one bit. But maybe somewhere on the way to or from Tahoe I’ll find the guts to tell you I want to be more than friends with you. So badly.
“Let’s get this show on the road. I made a playlist,” I say with as much vim and vigor as I can inject into my tone.
“I thought we could listen to a podcast,” he counters as he pulls into Friday afternoon traffic.
I mime retching.
“You don’t like podcasts? Like, in general?”
“That’s like saying you don’t like cake in general? When the answer is I love chocolate cake, but I can’t stand red velvet. In fact, I’d go so far as to call it a cake abomination.”
As he flicks the turn signal, he shakes his head, tsking me. “That’s because you’re a cream cheese hater.”
“Cream cheese is up there with raisins, Monday mornings, and yogurt that expired a day ago.”