Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Whatever resistance or reluctance that was lingering completely vanishes leaving in its wake the emotion that evidently brought him.
I honestly hoped he’d be here, too.
And I hope even more that he doesn’t leave before sunrise.
Once the flower has been transferred from his grip to mine and given a courtesy sniff, I sweetly state, “Thank you for this.”
His warm wink gets my heart hammering yet again.
“Need help bringing stuff in?”
“Not at all.”
Two steps back and one impressive collecting motion is all it takes for him to be ready to enter my one-story home.
I promptly grant us access, making sure to hold the door open for him and locking it after we’re both inside. The tour isn’t anything grand or even close to the spectacle I was given by my realtor when he was pitching me to buy. Due to the open floor plan, it doesn’t require more than a couple finger points in different directions regarding bedrooms and bathrooms prior to our arrival in the kitchen.
Tate swings the bags onto the countertop prompting me to announce, “I’m gonna go change out of my scrubs really quick. Feel free to make yourself at home.” A nervous fidgeting of my bag occurs. “You can take off your shoes or whatever. Connect to the Bluetooth if you wanna play music.” Backing up towards the archway that leads to the hall is slowly done. “There’s booze in the fridge if you need a drink.”
“Do you?” Tate teasingly ponders.
Maybe.
Possibly.
He steals a small bite of his bottom lip and offers me a sly smirk.
Definitely.
Probably several if he keeps that shit up.
Instead of answering, I merely mumble, “Be right back.”
Except instead of doing that I panic hide in my bedroom. I lock the door. Ditch my shoes. Socks. Strip out of my scrubs and underwear until I’m completely naked. I stare at myself in the full length mirror near the bathroom and mentally red marker all the problem areas I see.
And you know what?
If I can see these bitches, that means he can see them, too.
And he can hate them.
Be disgusted by them.
Which he probably will be.
Come on.
Things aren’t where they were on me when I was his age. Hell, they’re not even where they were when I got divorced! I mean, yeah some of the shit is a little toner – kudos to Nat for staying on my ass about the gym the first six months I joined it –, however, some shit definitely isn’t. Like I’ve got great full tits, but they aren’t that porn perky status they once were. And I think my nipples might be too dark now. Is that possible? And all of these fucking stretchmarks near my stomach and hips and arms make me look like I got my ass kicked in Wakanda by Black Panther himself. I can handle a little extra jiggle here or there or here and there but am I gonna look like a human Jell-O mold to him? Am I gonna remind him of something they served in the school cafeteria for lunch? Men my own age seem to understand how gravity and the human body works, but will he?
Am I about to endure the biggest embarrassment in all of my bedroom experience – including the Christmas morning masturbation disaster when I was seventeen?
Freeing my thick, straightened hair from its high ponytail is done to allow me a moment to comb my fingers through it.
Collect composure.
Convince myself to find something to put on as opposed to shouting from in here to just go home and that I’ll Venmo him money for the groceries.
Somewhere post cursing myself for not having lingerie – I always ignore Nat’s insistence that I need it – and cursing myself harder for trying to make the one comfy robe I have into something sexy, I settle on a sports bra underneath a baggy cropped hoodie and loose pair of sleep shorts with no underwear.
Thankfully, everything is good to go in that department courtesy of the arranged date that failed the other night.
At least going out with him was good for something.
It has me already prepared rather than scrambling in the bathroom last minute to make sure the conversation about woolly mammoths not being extinct doesn’t come up.
Geez…do they even teach the younger generations about those creatures anymore?
Would he have made a more relevant comparison like Chewbacca since Star Wars references are always relevant?
My eventual arrival back to the kitchen area instantly exposes me to a view I could easily spend the rest of my life enjoying. Not only is he barefoot and singing an Elvis song into a wooden spoon, he looks as though this is his home. Like he cooks in the space every day. Like drifting from end to end of the granite counters and spinning around to the island is a habit formed versus forming.