Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
She seems to have decided to be the single auntie until she dies. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d say that was her choice and there was nothing wrong with that.
But I do know her. I hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten until after I left, because I was too involved in my own drama. Tanisha deserves to have some joy and passion in her life as much as I do. More than I do. An almost impossible task with her family’s all-seeing, overprotective ways.
I wonder if Winston Duke is single.
An hour later, I’m still thinking about her, skimming status reports instead of sorting boxes and eating my prepackaged tortellini when I hear it.
Music. Pouring through the open doors of my balcony. I move closer without realizing it, my fork dangling from my mouth.
It’s him. And it sounds like he’s playing guitar outside.
Is he singing?
Chapter Three
Joey
I was not informed there’d be dinner music at this establishment.
The steel-framed French doors are open so I can get used to the new sounds of my neighborhood. The occasional but distinctive blast from boats signaling each other in the harbor, the barely discernible music coming from the bars near the water’s edge, and the rare squawk of an irritated gull. All distant enough to be a lullaby instead of a headache.
The sounds coming from next door aren’t distant at all.
I’m not complaining. I love live music, but the serenade doesn’t exactly jibe with the man I saw downstairs a few hours ago. I could picture that guy working heavy machinery or raising a barn, not strumming a stringed instrument under the stars.
I guess he’s forgiven whoever he was waiting for.
How nice for them.
That wasn’t snark. And it’s not like I’m obsessively wondering who won that golden ticket. I’m not dying of curiosity to find out what they might be doing after the song ends or jealous that whoever’s with him might get to see his ass up close and personal. Maybe get a good, dirty grip on that meaty goodness.
I’m such a bad liar.
But I do like his voice. Soft and deep, that hint of a rasp resonating through my body. I could listen to it for hours.
In bed.
Unfortunately, it’s not me he’s singing to.
When he fumbles a bit with a faster rap, the shock wears off enough for the lyrics to register. Interesting choice, I think as I swallow a laugh. I know plenty of adults—me included—who love a good Disney song, but it doesn’t really set the right tone for the kind of night I was imagining for him.
Why not? Did you forget your Justin Timberlake and Ryan Gosling fantasies already?
One time.
Whatever. I grab the drink I’ve been nursing and take a tentative step outside. A quick snoop to appease my curiosity, then I’ll leave him to it.
Plans change the second my bare feet touch the cold tile and a little girl’s voice joins in at the familiar chorus from Moana.
“What can I say except you’re welcome?”
Relief I have no right to feel engulfs me and the world makes sense again. I don’t want to think about why.
Mr. Gordon said the man is here to see his family. Is this a niece? Is he singing with his niece? Because that’s a level of irresistible that’s right up there with kitten videos, baby goats and grown men holding puppies. Something else I wasn’t expecting tonight, but I can’t deny it’s happening. Or that this Cavill clone knows my kryptonite.
Another step and the balcony opens up, revealing its twin to my left. Each of the outdoor areas are wide enough to throw a dinner party on, and they curve around opposite sides of the building, giving us a smaller area of privacy. The French doors and main view of the harbor, however, are unusually close to each other. There seems to be only around two feet’s worth of distance between the edge of my balcony and his.
I’m leaning more toward the drunken architect theory all the time.
He sits with his back to me. The light from his apartment drifts over his broad shoulders, a gentle spotlight on the body curved over his guitar.
He leans forward to sing into the phone lying flat on the table, his duet partner chiming in on the other end.
Shut up. You’re crying.
When they finish, I barely avoid joining in with the wild clapping coming through the speakers, biting the inside of my cheek to keep quiet as he chuckles fondly.
“You’re good for my ego, Rutabaga. Now that I’ve got this one down, we’ll finally get to pick a new song when I come get you tomorrow.”
“You can’t come tonight?”
Before he can answer, I hear a rustling on the other end of the line.
“It’s late.” The woman’s curt voice makes me flinch. “Go on, Rue. Adria’s waiting for you. She wants to show you that video you were talking about.”