Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
He nods. “It’s a little big for one person.”
“The room?”
He smiles. “The house.”
Does he think I’m pressuring him into a big house? Maybe he doesn’t want children. Maybe I’m assuming too much.
“I know four bedrooms seems like a lot, but you’ll fill them up quick. You could have a home office and a gym if you wanted to.”
“Until kids.”
I avoid making eye contact at all costs. “Yes, err…until that.”
“Madeleine?”
“Hmm?”
“Why can’t you look at me?”
I focus intently on an old oak tree I can see through the French doors. “I’m just really enjoying the view.”
“I’m not asking you to have children with me.” He laughs.
“Ha! I know!” My voice sounds strained, and I want to hide my face from his view. “This is just all so awkward. I don’t usually have hardcore make-out sessions with clients before I show them houses.”
He steps closer. “Weird. I always make out with my real estate agent before I let them show me homes.”
I try to laugh at his joke, but it sounds hollow.
“You’re overthinking this.”
“Am I?” I finally turn to face him. He’s standing a few feet away, his hands propped on his hips. There’s a playful gleam in his eye and a smile waiting to break free across his lips. “Maybe you’re not thinking enough. Have things changed? Are you suddenly ready to date? Or are you just done trying to keep your distance?”
He smiles ruefully. “Both? Neither? Madeleine, it doesn’t have to be so black and white.”
Maybe not for Adam, but for me, it does. I’m done playing in the gray area. I don’t have the luxury of romping around with Adam until he comes to his senses. I spent most of my 20s dating the wrong kind of guys: the bad boy, the egoist, the womanizer. No more. Now, it’s time to go down a different path. I need someone who doesn’t balk at the idea of marriage, who isn’t going to cringe every time I bring up children.
“Can’t we just take it one day at a time?” he asks.
If I were 22 and fresh out of college, his proposition would sound like a dream. Now, I need to know what to expect in the next month, the next year. I have to start planning for the future or I’m going to wake up 40 and alone with Mouse as my only companion.
I sigh and shake my head. “Let’s just focus on real estate for right now. You only have a few more minutes before you have to get back to work.”
“But when am I going to see you again? Can I take you out?”
Out? On a date?
It sounds too good to be a true. Because it is. I drag my hand down my face. “Adam, c’mon. This isn’t the right time.”
“Madeleine.”
He steps closer and I shake my head. He’s doing it again—crowding my space until I give in. Twice this has led to an inappropriate make-out session; I won’t let it happen a third time.
I turn back to the porch and he comes to stand beside me.
“There’s a mixer thing that my agency is hosting,” I relent, focusing on the oak tree. “I have to invite three people. You can come.”
“When is it?”
“Next week.”
He shakes his head. “That’s too far away. Let me come and run Mouse.”
Run Mouse is nothing more than a euphemism at this point.
“Adam, I’m giving you the mixer.” I cross my arms to emphasize my point. I’m not budging. “Take it or leave it.”
I can see him smirk out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve never had to beg a woman to spend time with me before.”
I smirk. “You haven’t been on the market in a while.”
He reaches out and smooths his hand beneath my hair, resting it on the base of my neck. Goose bumps bloom down my spine, but he plays coy. “Maybe I’ve lost my touch.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
He laughs and then bends to press a kiss to my hair. “I’ll play this game, Madeleine. You want me to wait until the mixer? I’ll wait.”
But he doesn’t take his hand off my neck. He turns me until I’m facing him. My breath is coming in short, weak spurts, and my knees are starting to feel shaky. I’m rooted to the spot, staring up at him with my fists clenched by my sides.
“It’s next Saturday at the brewery downtown,” I volunteer.
His hand skims higher and his fingers weave through my hair. He barely tugs and yet I stumble toward him, catching myself against his chest.
“At the brewery?” he asks, leaning down and pressing another kiss to my cheek, this one just at the corner of my mouth.
I nod mutely.
“What time?” he asks, wrapping his other hand around my waist.
“7:00 PM,” I croak.
He hums as he bends down and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. It’s over so fast that my eyes are still closed when he pulls away. I wilt toward him like a flower, desperate for a little more sunlight.