Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
When we hang up, I feel like the pregame ritual wasn’t the most important thing that happened tonight.
A week later
Knock, knock.
“It’s open,” I yell.
My apartment door opens, and Dalton struts in like he owns the place, locking the door behind him, squatting to pick up my purse and hang it on the hook, easily stepping over my floordrobe, and setting the bag of take-out food he brought on my kitchen counter.
“Plates are in the—” I start to say, but he throws me a duh look as he opens the correct cabinet and pulls out two plates. I press my lips together, fighting off a laugh as he makes himself at home, plating up our dinner while I stay curled up on the couch.
I’m not a great hostess. Never claimed I was. And technically, I’m doing Dalton a favor, so I’m not gonna clean up, act like I’m Miss Perfect, and treat him like a guest.
He flops onto the couch beside me, offering me chicken marsala while keeping a plate piled high with grilled chicken and veggies for himself. When he’d offered to bring dinner tonight, strictly for convenience’s sake, I asked if I had to follow Fritzi’s diet, too, and Dalton had said he’d get me whatever I wanted. Chicken marsala sounded delicious, and given the smell wafting from my plate, I was right. Mine looks considerably better than Dalton’s too.
“Thank you,” I say, licking my finger where a bit of sauce got it when I took the plate.
Dalton’s eyes zero in on the tip of my tongue, and he shifts, seeming uncomfortable on my super comfortable couch. Secretly, I smile to myself. I knew chicken marsala was the way to go.
“What are we watching?” Dalton asks, eyes turning to the television where I paused the movie I started earlier. The screen is frozen on an image of white snow-covered trees, a handsome blond guy wearing a sweater and matching beanie, and a Saint Bernard puppy, complete with wooden barrel keg on his collar.
He’s gonna laugh and give me shit, but I don’t care. Cheesy Hallmark movies are my one and only vice, and I love them. “Snowball’s Chance in Heaven,” I answer, daring him with a glare to say one word.
His fork pauses halfway to his open mouth, a broccoli tree hanging precariously from the tines. “Snowball’s chance in what?”
I hit play, explaining as we go. “That’s Jameson. He oversees his family’s property in Vermont. And that’s his dog, Bernie, who rescued a visitor coming to the house to try to buy the land but accidentally slid into a snow drift. And that’s Sheila, the visitor-slash-investor’s representative, who’s in way over her head.”
“Are you fucking with me?” he deadpans.
I don’t answer. I turn up the volume, gluing my eyes to the ridiculously contrived and saccharine-sweet story that makes my insides all warm and gooey.
Surprisingly, Dalton watches the movie with me while he eats. Occasionally, he snorts at the absurdity of the storyline, and once, he tells Sheila to run for the city before she’s brainwashed by the Vermontian cult of pine tree appreciation. I actually laugh at that one, too, but still poke him with my elbow and tell him to watch the movie.
By the end of it, I’m sniffling quietly as Sheila and Jameson confess their love for one another and Sheila helps him save the family estate from her boss by revealing a clause in the contract Jameson’s dad secretly signed.
“Are you crying?” Dalton sounds incredulous, like the possibility that I might be capable of tears never occurred to him.
I swipe at my eyes, but there’s too many tears escaping, so I resort to using the blanket to wipe them away, keeping my face turned the other way so he doesn’t see. “No.”
“What’s wrong with you? You’re crying over that?” He points at the television, where the credits are rolling over a closing scene of Sheila, Jameson, and Bernie having a snowball fight in front of a huge log-cabin mansion while snow falls around them.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I argue.
“Are you crying over her giving up her career for that asshole?” he asks, seeming shocked at my uncharacteristic show of emotions. “Or because he brainwashed her with a cute puppy and picturesque backdrop into thinking he’s a good guy, when he’s an asshole who let her walk away from everything for what? For him? Why was it never an option that he sell the estate, take the money, and the two of them move to a walk-up in the city? Oh no, of course not, because she’s the martyr, not him.”
I stare, all my gobs smacked by his takeaway from the movie. “What? That’s not what that was. It was romantic! They fell in love with each other. I guess you wouldn’t understand a sweet love like that.”