Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“He’s not wrong,” the driver said, shrugging.
“Oh, right,” she said, pursing those pretty lips of hers. “Well, um, okay.” She gave me another smile. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Do you need to get anything out of the car?” I asked, seeing it was jam-packed with crap in the backseat.
“Oh, no. I was on the way to bring all that to the Re-Store, actually. My uncle was a bit of a packrat,” she explained, turning to watch as her car was pulled up on the bed of the tow truck.
“We have your number,” he said when he was done. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“Great. Thanks so much,” she said, giving him another smile, then watching him walk away.
“Shall we?” I asked, holding a hand out toward the passenger door.
“Yes, thank you.”
I opened her door for her, waited for her to slide in, then closed it.
“Christ,” I sighed as I moved back to the driver’s side. Now her honeysuckle scent was gonna be all over my car, making me think of her each time I got in it for days until it finally subsided.
“I’m sorry if I’m getting in the way of your plans.”
“Nah. I was just going to the furniture store. I don’t have a couch,” I explained.
“How long have you been in your new place?”
“I bought it, I dunno, almost a year ago.”
“And you don’t have a couch yet?” she asked, half-laughing at me.
“To be fair, I haven’t spent much time at home.”
“Maybe because you don’t have any furniture?” she suggested.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I agreed.
“My uncle has entirely too much furniture. Do you have need for an old, ripped office chair? Because I have four.”
“Four?”
“Instead of taking anything to be donated or tossed, he seemed to just… put things in his basement. There are also three TVs, an old mattress, about fifteen pillows, and even an old refrigerator.”
“I hate to think what’s in the garage?”
“Six lawn mowers.”
“Six? Damn.”
“And it goes without saying, there are endless boxes of car parts. I hate to think what is in the storage unit he has. Oh, but you know what he doesn’t have?”
“What’s that?”
“A pot or pan. Not a single one. He must have eaten out for every meal for his entire life.”
“Blasphemy,” I declared, feeling her gaze on the side of my face.
“Do you cook?” she asked.
“My ma wouldn’t have let me move outta the house without learning all the basic life skills. I can fold a mean fitted sheet too.”
“Impressive. I kind of just… fold and roll them. Life is too short to get frustrated over bed linens.”
“Fair enough. These days, I have someone who folds my fitted sheets for me.”
“Do you outsource the cooking too?”
“Depends what you mean by that.” Sensing her curiosity, I shrugged. “I hop around to the tables of all my family members on the nights when I don’t order in. I live alone. Don’t really see the point of cooking a whole meal just for myself.”
“I cook every night,” she admitted. “Just for myself. I find it relaxing.”
What I didn’t find particularly relaxing was the image she conjured up in my mind of her in the kitchen cooking me a meal wearing nothing but high heels and a barely-there apron.
“Shit,” I said, realizing I was already pulling into the lot of the furniture store without even asking Dasha where I was supposed to be dropping her off. “I was supposed to be driving you home, wasn’t I?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, already reaching for her door handle. “I could really use a bedside lamp,” she said, climbing out of the car, ready for a little adventure despite the change of plans.
As if I needed another reason to like the woman.
I pretty quickly learned how bad of an idea furniture shopping with Dasha was about two minutes later as she kept planting her perfect ass on a bunch of different couches and chairs, running her fingers over the material, making me imagine those hands moving over me, of moving over her, of pressing her into those cushions…
“Oh, now that is a couch,” she declared, pulling me out of my fantasy to find she’d walked toward the back corner of the store where they kept the shit that wasn’t as popular. “Don’t you just want to press your face against it?” she asked, running her fingers over the back of the dark green velvet couch.
“Oh, they have it in pink,” she went on, looking at the tag attached to the arm. “If it wasn’t so astronomical, I would totally get a pink couch. My uncle has a striped couch. I think, at one time, it was maybe brown and gold. I have it draped in a blanket,” she admitted with a grimace. “Sorry, I’m totally talking your ear off, aren’t I?”
“I don’t mind,” I said, running my hand over the couch. “It is nice,” I decided.