Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I don’t do meat or carbs.”
“But isn’t keto all protein?”
“I basically stick to eating tofu, vegetables, and nuts, but only the kinds found in primitive caveman diets.”
Caveman tofu. Okey-dokey.
“You look put off,” he says.
“No. It’s fine. I can order your dinner from the pet store.”
“What?”
“Just kidding.” Not really. “I’m sure the Chinese place near my house can do some veggie stir-fry. Throw in some cashews and tofu.”
I find an opening in the far-left lane, which is where I need to be to get on the freeway. I’m about to merge when the driver in that lane floors it and closes the gap, preventing me from getting in. He missed my door by an inch, but only because I jerked the wheel to the right.
“Hey!” I yell with the window down. “I had my blinker on, dipshit!”
The guy flips me off.
“Fuck you, too, shitforbrains!”
“Mila,” Carter says, “your vibe is very aggressive. Take it down a notch, yeah?”
I glance over at him, thinking he’s kidding, but he’s not. His expression is all taciturn.
“That loser cut me off for no reason and almost hit us. Also, don’t tell me how to drive,” I snap and instantly regret it. Not because I wasn’t fully within my rights to say that to Carter, but because I really don’t know him. Maybe he’s a pacifist.
“My apologies,” he says. “But my mother was killed in a road-rage incident. I’m a little sensitive.”
Oh crap. That’s way worse than being a pacifist. “I’m so sorry. Did the guy go to prison?”
“Why do you automatically assume it was a man who killed her?” he says.
“I guess you’re right.”
“It was a squirrel,” he adds.
“Huh?” I want to look at him, but I need to keep my eyes on the road and scooch in so I don’t miss our turnoff.
“Very tragic. She was driving, and an angry squirrel ran out into the road. She swerved to miss it and plowed into a tree.”
“How sad. I’m so sorry you lost her that way.” I’m quiet for a long moment, trying to resist pointing out the fucking obvious. I can’t not say it! “But isn’t that more of just an unfortunate accident instead of road rage?”
“You see accident,” he says with a melodramatic tone, “I see a story. A story of nature lashing out at humankind.”
Ay-yai-yai. What’s with this guy?
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately, probably noticing my scowl. “I know I can be a little out there with my views on things. I think I spend so much time trying to reimagine the world and tell life through a unique lens that I forget how to talk to normal, real-life, intelligent women.”
That’s the first nice thing he’s said since, well, I’m not sure. I don’t specifically remember him saying nice things in Jamaica. We just had fun together. Okay, and he talked a lot about his career. “No problem. Either way, I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Me too.”
“Any siblings?” I ask.
“One, but he’s older than me. We don’t talk much. How about you?”
“Only child. But I have a few cousins my age. We spent a lot of time together after school, since my aunt was a stay-home mom and both my parents worked. It was the next best thing to siblings, and I got my own room.” Along with a crippling inability to relax.
I catch a glimpse of him thinking, his blue eyes intense, but he doesn’t say anything.
“What?” I ask.
“Just taking mental notes. I try not to, but it’s a habit. I’m always cataloging people—their lives and experiences—in my head. A curse of my craft, I suppose.”
“Guess so,” I say as we finally get to the on-ramp.
“Hey, before we get to your place, I just want to say how good it is to see you again. I really enjoyed our connection in Jamaica. Haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
“Really?” My cheeks get all hot.
“Yeah. Really. But I don’t want you to feel any pressure tonight. I’m game for anything.”
Yep. I’m sure he is. I just wonder if I have enough ice-cream toppings on hand for his “game.”
“No expectations here,” I say with a squeak, my voice artificially high.
“Great. Because I really just want to get to know you and spend time together before I’m off to my next stop.”
“When do you think you’ll be back this way?” If he says never, then maybe I can let my guard down. Sounds counterintuitive, but I’d almost feel relieved to be done with this experiment in “boundary pushing.”
If I knew he didn’t plan to come to Dallas again, I could see myself saying: Okay, Mila. It’s just one night. Go apeshit. Have crazy-ass sex with him. I mean crazy sex. Not ass sex. I’m not breaking the booty seal for any man. I want full control of my flatulence and butthole when I’m older. I hear it gets difficult as is, so why make it harder to bend over and tie my shoes in public when I’m seventy? Just saying, no man’s pleasure is worth my dignity in my golden years.