Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I do. It’s going to take longer than expected to paint this damn room. And I think it’s your fault.”
“Guilty.”
And with that, Bryson dropped to his knees, freed my aching cock, and sucked me like I was the last popsicle on the hottest day in summertime.
I rested my head on the wall behind me and surrendered, sliding my fingers through his hair and watching the show as he worked me over. He could do whatever the hell he wanted with me. Use me, have me, take…and take some more. I didn’t mind at all.
He made me feel whole, wanted, needed. I was beginning to think he might feel the same about me.
13
BRYSON
Texts from Jake:
Did you volunteer me 2 hang out with Smitty and high school kids? No thanks!
He’s the worst.
I’m not doing it.
K, fine. But only cuz he sucks and I can probably help. I accept payment in extra pancakes.
“I’ve got a funny question for you.”
JC shot his signature single raised-brow look my way and continued slicing bread into cubes on the butcher block island in the kitchen. It was a sliver of space visible from the counter at certain angles and only when the diner wasn’t particularly busy—like at three p.m. on a Thursday.
“Funny…I will laugh, or funny peculiar?” JC asked, his broad Quebecois accent lilting with humor.
I inhaled deeply and glanced around the empty counter. God, this was awkward.
“I called for a reservation at C’est Bon, and they were completely booked Saturday night. Is there any chance there might be a free table earlier in the evening? At say…five o’clock?”
JC’s lips twitched. “This sounds more like a favor than a funny question.”
“Is that a yes or a no?” I deadpanned.
“Oui, I will reserve a table for you. Is this a special occasion? Is Jake home early? No…Syracuse is playing Boston tonight.”
“He’ll be home next week for a couple of days, which is great because the season is about to start and he’ll be busy. I’ll be at the opening game for sure, but they have quite a few away games early on and—” I snapped my mouth shut, horrified by my uncharacteristic rambling.
No doubt JC was wondering what the hell had gotten into me.
Yep.
He set his knife down and ambled to the counter, his sharp eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You have a date.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Ah, you are lying.” JC pointed at me. “Your ears are turning pink. That’s cute. Tell me everything, and don’t worry, I won’t get jealous. I am a happily married man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, good for you.”
“Who is he?”
“Smitty. But it’s not what you’re thinking at all,” I added hastily.
He arched a brow as he folded his arms over his barrel chest. “Oh?”
“No, I’m—he’s…interested in buying property,” I lied.
“In Pinecrest? Why? It’s a very snobby town and expensive too.”
“You own a restaurant there.”
JC huffed. “That’s called good business. Living there? No, thanks. I’ll talk Smitty out of it and—”
“No, that’s not—he’s not interested in Pinecrest, but options are good. I showed him the Rinaldis’ house on Spruce too. He likes fixer-uppers.”
Okay, I was a lying liar who ate lies for breakfast and reheated them at lunch. I had no shame and no chill. However, in this case, it was only a mini lie. Or so I told myself. I had shown Smitty the Rinaldis’ house, and he had said he liked fixing things. God knew he was good with his hands.
“Ah, so you’re buttering him for a sale. Is that the saying?”
“Close enough.”
“That is good business too. I’ll take care of zee reservation for you.” JC patted my shoulder and returned to his chopping while I stewed over a cup of coffee I didn’t want and the heavy weight of silly lies to keep me company.
Why did this feel so…complicated?
Smitty. That’s why.
He might look like a larger than average, good-natured athlete, but Smitty was no ordinary guy. Sure, he was gregarious, playful, and rambunctious, but he was also thoughtful, generous, and almost selflessly kind.
I was having a hard time affixing a label to us that made sense in my mind. Every time I convinced myself I was having a simple albeit potentially Elmwood-newsworthy romantic tryst with my handsome neighbor, he’d say or do something that made me like him just a little bit more than I wanted to.
That little bit was growing by the day at an alarming pace.
It was the small gestures that got me. Like that fact that he didn’t seem to mind getting trapped into lengthy conversations with loquacious octogenarians.
I’d spotted him in deep conversation with Dale in front of his mailbox almost every day this week and chatting with Crabby Annie at the bakery or in front of the fountain. Dale was his neighbor, and Smitty would never be rude…even if it meant listening to the same stories or reminiscence of people who’d been dead for years. But Annie was another story. He sought her out.