Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
TJ laughs, long and a little slaphappy. “You have a way with words too. And I will drink to your ode to all shapes and sizes,” he says, and we toast once more.
Soon, we take our last sips of beer, reaching the end of the date. But before I can say good night, TJ leans into me and brushes a kiss onto my cheek.
I freeze and moan at the same time.
I didn’t expect a kiss, and I definitely don’t want it to end. His lips are utterly delicious on my skin. I close my eyes and revel in the barely-there stroke of his soft lips down to my jaw, where he’s more insistent, a little rougher, that stubble scraping my chin in the best way.
I shudder out a breath. He lays a hand on my other cheek, holds me in place. “If you’re a good dick, I’ll give you a good night kiss,” he whispers, and I’m so damn glad I lost the Cleaneroo gig. If the casting director had asked for a callback on the spot, I’d have missed my chance to run into TJ outside a discount shop.
“I’ll be the best,” I say, and I’m tempted to turn into his lips. To get lost in one of those endless, dreamy kisses I suspect he can give.
But I’m acutely aware of the power of waiting.
I’ve never edged with kisses. I plan to tonight.
A few minutes later, we’re outside The Magpie. With the book in hand, he gestures in the direction of his hotel. “See you tomorrow sometime,” he says.
“Text me when you’re up, Sleeping Beauty,” I say, nibbling the edge of my mouth absently for a second.
TJ stares wantonly at me, then steps closer. He’s mere inches away. “You do this thing where you bite your lip, and it kind of drives me crazy.” He drags his thumb along the corner of my mouth then chases it with his lips, giving me one more kiss right there. A spark sprints through me from that barest touch.
TJ steps away, walks backward, lifts his free hand to wave. “Goodnight, Just Jude.”
“Welcome to London, Tobias Jangle.”
With a smile, TJ turns and strolls into the London evening. The whole way home, I think of great dicks. Because that was the best goodnight kiss I’ve ever had, and it was also the most innocent.
5
ALL THAT PRESUMING
TJ
I was born and raised in Seattle and lived there till I left for college. It rains every day in the Pacific Northwest, and no one there uses an umbrella.
To London weather, I say, bring it on, and the gray sky does just that the next morning, piddling rain on me as I hunt for coffee.
Coffee will help me decide when to text Jude, and it is a veritable hunt because I’m a little ashamed to admit this—I’m a terrible coffee snob. Like, the worst of them. The kind I will undoubtedly mock in a future book someday. The guy who asks Do you know the elevation where the beans were grown while the barista wonders if it’s acceptable to flip a customer the bird for being a pretentious fuck.
Google tells me the nearby Coffee O’Clock has the best reviews in the hood, so I make a beeline for the shop’s red awning then wait in line.
When I reach the barista, I place my order, then ask, “And I just wanted to make sure you cleaned the hopper?”
Don’t want my beans’ oils mixed with some other beans’ oils.
The barista—a tattooed guy with a leather apron—sears me with a dead-eyed stare. “The second I woke up, mate.” Brits are known for their dry humor, and his is desert level.
“Cool, cool. I won’t have to cancel my order, then,” I quip with a smile that he declines to return. “And did you purge the steam wand?”
His stony expression and lifted brow tell me what I can do with my steam wand. I hold up my hands. “Sorry. It’s all good. Do what you’re doing.” I’m particular, but I’m not a complete coffee douche. “I’m new to town.”
“You don’t say.” He relents and gets to making my coffee. “So, New York, is it?”
“Yes. But originally from Seattle.”
“Ah. That would explain it.”
“I know. Seattle is the root of all manner of coffee sins.”
The barista hands me my drink. “Have faith, mate. This is the good stuff.”
I take a sip as I leave the shop and decide he’s not wrong. But he’s not right either. This is only a passable cup of coffee. To be fair, though, a true coffee snob is never satisfied. There’s always a better bag of beans out there.
With the cup in hand, I head to the river, stand at the railing, and stare—Portrait of a moody American on a Sunday morning.
Except, I’m not moody. I’m antsy.
FOR PEOPLE TO WAKE UP.