Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Add the tattoos and the freckles and the ability to cop my grandmas' accent (a lot of women have a thing for Irish guys, for some reason), and, well… I always knew I could find someone if I was so inclined.
Even when I had girlfriends, monogamous relationships, I knew those women were interested in me. I knew we'd get together and enjoy each other soon enough. I didn't crave them. Or savor their touch. Or feel an intense need to text them right away, to demand pictures.
With Imogen?
I need to respond to her offer, to tease her, to test her, to adore her.
All morning, my cell burns a hole in my pocket. I make it all the way to work, and through set up, before I give in to my desire to reach her.
Patrick: Not tonight. Today. Text me when you're ready.
She replies right away.
Imogen: I don't see the word please.
Patrick: Are you free?
Imogen: Leaving class.
Patrick: Going to swim laps?
Imogen: Maybe. Maybe not.
Patrick: A picture of you in your practice suit says yes.
Imogen: What if I'm not going? What do I get?
Patrick: A picture of me in your practice suit.
Imogen: You'll stretch it out.
Patrick: Brutal.
Imogen: Do you have any idea how quickly I run through these?
Patrick: Are you always this pragmatic?
Imogen: Yes.
There's another side to her too. The girl who wonders about my dog-eared copy of The Bell Jar.
But, hey, I'm not going there.
This isn't a time for ugly things.
This is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Patrick: How about a picture of me in my swimsuit?
Imogen: Deal.
Patrick: Deal.
She sends a handshake emoji.
I reply with one.
The shop's bell dings. My client. There isn't time to flirt, but I don't put my phone away.
Imogen: I am on my way to swim laps. But if I ask for the picture later, I expect it.
Patrick: I don't have a pic in a swimsuit.
Imogen: You could always send less.
Patrick: Really?
Imogen: If I ask. I'll be home in an hour and a half, give or take. Free in two. Jade might be home, but…
Patrick: Text me when it happens. I'll reply when I can. At work.
Imogen: Tease.
Patrick: Always.
I put my cell away; I greet my client; I fall into the rhythm of work.
A badass hammerhead shark.
A small Latin quote.
A musical note behind a woman's ear.
I don't listen to my clients' stories the way I usually do. I talk to them, yeah. I set them at ease, distract them as well as I can, but I don't hear them.
My thoughts are too tuned to Imogen.
What does she think about while she swims? What she wants to do to me? What inspired her to read The Bell Jar?
I want to know everything.
All of it.
Finally, I find a twenty-minute break. I stand, stretch, text Imogen.
Patrick: Please.
Imogen: Ten minutes. And I need the magic word.
Patrick: Pretty please.
Imogen: Guess again.
Patrick: Avocado?
Imogen: Bingo.
A laugh spills from my lips.
Luna taps her fingers against the counter. Loudly. She clears her throat even more loudly.
"Yes?" I slide my cell into my pocket. Check the time on the wall clock. Ten minutes. I don't need lunch on my break. I need this. I can go hours without food if I have this kind of nourishment.
"Is that Imogen?"
"Why do you ask?"
"She was here last week."
"And?"
Luna looks around the empty shop and slides onto the counter. She pushes to the front. Dangles her long legs off the edge.
She looks cool and effortless in her crop top, shorts, and high-top sneakers, but we both know she's buzzing over her boyfriend's imminent arrival.
"You didn't look very casual," she says.
"So?"
"Tricky, don't play dumb. I'm a woman who's gone two weeks without."
"Two weeks is nothing."
"Maybe if you're not getting something good," she says.
"And when you were single?" I ask.
"When you're single, the world is your oyster. There's possibility at every corner."
"A whole world of dick to unlock?" I offer.
"You tease, but yes. I don't want to see them all, but I know I can, anytime I want."
I can't argue. She's a knockout. I'm sure she can find a dozen willing guys via bar, party, or hookup app. And I understand her feeling too. When I was single and wanting, I felt a different hunger. A general sense I knew I could sate with effort.
Right now, knowing I have to wait another nine minutes to tease Imogen?
It's torture.
"You two haven't had phone sex?" I ask.
"That only made it worse."
Another laugh spills from my lips.
"See. That's what I mean. You laugh because you love me and love my pain."
"Sure."
"And you laughed the same way just now. So… is that her?"
"Yes," I say.
"It's serious?"
"No," I say. "Not for her."
"But for you?"
"No comment."
"And your online friend…"
"We're not friends," I say. "I read her journal. That's it. Do you tell Oliver about your fantasies of Michael B. Jordan?"
"That's not the same."
"Isn't it?"
"You're emotionally attached."
"I don't even know her name."