Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry.” Eli’s shoulders slump. “I wasn't planning on sitting here talking about Laura. I just needed to think, and this was the first place I thought of to come when I turned out of the parking lot.”
“Don't worry. I know how good it feels to get something off your chest.”
He glances over at me again. “Do you have anything you need to get off your chest? Any confessions you want to tell Uncle Eli?”
I smack him. “Ew! Don't call yourself that. It makes you sound like a creepy old man.”
“So should I take that as a no? You don't have any confessions? We have client confidentiality. I won't tell a soul anything you've told me here tonight.”
“I'm not your client.” I laugh. “I have zero marketable skills.”
“None? Not a single braggable skill, hey?”
That gives me pause, and I stop to think for a second. “Well, I used to be a patent twirler in middle school, does that count?”
“Absolutely not. There's no market for that.” He laughs.
“I'm really good at calligraphy,” I blurt out. “I went through a phase recently where it calmed me. Do you happen to need any invitations handwritten? I’m your girl.”
“I've literally never heard anyone tell me they were good at calligraphy. Normal people brag about their tennis match or how they can throw a perfect spiral football. Or that they played soccer in high school and could run the mile in ten minutes.”
“I can't remember the last time anyone called me normal,” I announce with pride in my voice. “I tried it once—worst two minutes of my life. Ha ha.”
“What are your skills?” I ask him. “What are you really good at?”
“Kissing,” he says with a laugh.
“Oh, brother.” An unladylike snort leaves my nose. “I should have known you’d have an answer like that.”
I surreptitiously let my eyes stray from the runway to Eli's lips.
I mean, can you blame me?
The man just told me he was good at kissing. You can't fault me for being curious. As far as lips go, they're pretty nice—a full bottom lip and pronounced Cupid’s bow. He's freshly shaven, and he has a beautifully sculpted jawline.
“When was your first kiss?” I ask out of curiosity. It’s a question I’ve asked many of my girlfriends but don’t think it’s one I’ve ever asked a man before.
“Penny Rainamacher, ninth grade—she was a knockout after she got her braces taken off.”
I laugh at that.
“Who was yours?”
I barely have to give this any thought. “Brian Warner, sophomore year.” There’s a grin on my face. “It was horrible. He was the worst kisser.”
“How was he the worst kisser?”
“Way too much tongue.” Ugh, the slobber. “And he was so cute, too. That was the dilemma.”
“Where was it?”
“Back of his car in the parking lot of the high school. We were there to see a play but never made it inside.”
“Huh. That sounds super…small town.”
“Yeah, I guess. Everything about my childhood was pretty vanilla. I did everything by the book. Just ask Mr. Wallace.”
He laughs. “What’s so funny?”
“It kills me that you call him Mr. Wallace.”
I stuff fries into my mouth. “Force of habit, I guess. He moved into his house while I was a teenager—thirteen, I think—and my parents taught me I had to call grown-ups mister or missus until they gave me permission to call them by their first name. And, well—he did at one point, but I still call him Mr. Wallace.” I chuckle around a mouthful of fry. “Now I do it because it annoys him and makes him feel old.”
“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” Eli lifts the bun from his burger and removes one of the pickles. “Do you want this?”
I reach for it. “Sure. I love pickles.”
We eat in silence as I ponder over the fact that he’s a good kisser. I’ve heard men proclaim this before but never typically believe it. For some reason, I do with him.
Elias Cohen seems like the kind of man who’s good at everything he does or sets his mind to, and I respect that.
My parents taught me to value ambition but not let it rule me, and it seems that’s where Eli is in his life right now. Too bad the woman he chose didn’t feel the same.
Poor dude.
“So you’re good at kissing? You must have gotten a lot of rave reviews to brag about it like that. Most people would have said they’re skilled at cooking or can bike fifty miles.”
“Sure, that would have been the basic response, wouldn’t it?”
“But there’s nothing basic about you?”
“Nope.” He picks at the fries but doesn’t take another one. “I mean, I’m also good with the law. I know it inside and out and back again.”
He has that in common with my folks, both of them lawyers.
“Besides handwriting and calligraphy, what else are you good at?”
I have to give this some thought. I’m talented with many things, but they are all common and not in the least bit interesting.