Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Well.
Okay then.
Well.
My cheeks are hot pink. “That is not happening.”
“So?” he parrots me. “Just ’cause you say it’s not happenin’ doesn’t mean he isn’t going to manifest it.” He laughs again, using my own inner thoughts against me.
“Would you please leave me alone? And give me back my plate. I wasn’t done with that.”
He hands me the plate.
It’s mostly empty except for a few stray pecans that have fallen off their pancakes.
I pick one up, nibbling at it.
So good.
“The good news is you can wear a hoodie if you have a hankerin’.”
“Shut up, Duke.”
His monster shoulders shrug as he tilts his head to one side, thinking. “Don’t I recall one of your house rules as not bringin’ house guests home without discussin’ it first?”
“No one is bringing a house guest home tonight.” I wish he would go away, but instead, he’s just standing there needling me. Harping on me like an older brother—one I never asked for. “And besides, you never read those rules anyway. How would you even know?”
“Oh, I read them all right. All ten of them.” He clears his throat. “Don’t eat your roommate's food without asking—or replace it once you do. Always ask to borrow things.” Duke pauses. “That’s the rule sayin’ I have to ask if I want to borrow your clothes and vice versa.”
How is he reciting this verbatim? “You’ve broken both of those rules.”
“Keep music and voice to a respectable volume, especially at bedtime.” He goes on. “No overnight guests without consulting the other person. Keep all doors locked at all times.” He looks at me pointedly. “But not the windows, apparently.”
“Wow, really, you smart-ass?”
“I’d rather be a smart-ass than a dumbass.” He laughs again.
It’s a deep, pleasant laugh—one I don’t hate at all. In fact, it warms me from the inside out and does something to my lower half I’m not exactly comfortable with.
I wish he went away.
He’s completely disrupted my routine, my life. We’ve been intimate, and I can’t get the taste of him out of my mouth; can’t get the sensation of his fingers gone from between my legs. It had barely taken me any time at all to come.
“I have no idea how to respond to that.”
No. He’s no dumbass, far from it. Behind those eyes and that youthful personality is an extremely intuitive man. I wonder how many people have failed to see that over the past few years.
Wonder how many people have taken advantage of him, men and women—maybe even his own family? I hear that happens sometimes.
It’s date night.
The first one in a long time, and I stand in front of my closet, chewing at my thumbnail, debating what to wear. Jeans, for sure—Wylee’s isn’t a fancy place. If fact, I could probably get by with sweatpants if I really wanted to.
For a first date, I would have never personally chosen Wylee’s.
I’m disappointed.
Staring at the building from the parking lot, I wonder how easy Brian will be to spot; if he’s inside waiting for me already or if he’ll be late.
It’s a big brown cedar shake restaurant with a huge back patio overlooking a lake and the boats in the harbor below. Christmas lights are strung all over the deck railing.
I can already hear the music. It’s probably from a jukebox—it’s that kind of place.
Jeans.
T-shirt covered in flirty, red hearts. Gold heart necklace.
Hair down.
Wedge sandals, casual but they add a few inches to my short frame.
Taking a deep breath, I clutch my small red purse, tucking it beneath my armpit before pulling open the door and taking the first step inside.
It’s not necessarily a crowded bar, but it has more people in it than I was expecting it to—considering it’s only seven o’clock. Don’t places like this get really busy around ten?
My eyes scan the room, looking for any signs of Brian or a man who looks like the teenage boy I remember from high school. I see several, but none of them look like the picture on the dating app; one man is completely bald with a mustache so that can’t be him. Another one is way too tall and bulky to be Brian. And then there’s a guy already sitting at the bar, leaning forward, elbows on the bar top, and it appears he’s already had a drink.
That can’t be. Who arrives to a date and orders a drink before their date even arrives?
Apparently, Brian does.
The man doesn’t turn until I approach, not bothering to look for me.
He’s laughing with the bartender—a woman, not that it matters—deep in what appears to be a humorous conversation, the young woman’s eyes meeting mine as I stand behind him.
She scurries off.
That’s when Brian finally turns and sees me.
It takes him a good few seconds to put my face and my name together; to connect the dots that I’m his date, and he drove all this way for me.