Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I lose my breath as I take her in. I haven't seen her in four years and she's changed. Her round face has slimmed down. Her eyebrows are finer and her lashes longer. Her lips are plush and full—a look she comes by naturally. The puffy coat I had to stand in line to buy her is open, and underneath I can see how her leggings hug and mold to her figure. How the long-sleeve shirt hugs her upper curves. Curves I've spent years trying to forget.
Seeing her for the first time in all these years is a shock. It's a kick in the gut. It's a burn lower.
"Yeah, I'm proud of you," I manage to get out past the rock in my throat and my thickening tongue.
Everything’s changed. She’s older and smarter. I’m older and weaker. I wish I could blink and transform her into the little elementary girl I used to know, the one that didn't come up much farther than my hip, the one that didn't make me want things no good man should want.
I didn’t plan for this, and I don’t know what to do.
She starts shivering and pulls her jacket close. "It’s cold out."
I give myself a mental slap. She's standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside Marjory's in the middle of winter while I wrestle with my guilty conscience. I can do that shit job somewhere warmer.
“Why didn’t you text me?”
“I did. Like ten hours ago. Or is it eleven?” I start to check my phone when a huge yawn cracks across her face. "I’m losing track of time.”
Reluctantly, I replace my phone in the inside pocket of my leather coat. "Let's go."
She reaches for me, tucking her arm into the crook of my elbow and resting her tired head against my arm. I swallow hard and try not to let the brief contact turn me to ash, but my heart's pounding wildly and my body's feeling abnormally hot.
We walk to the car that's packed to the gills. A surge of happiness courses through me at the idea of having Bitsy home. I remind myself that this is temporary. As soon as possible, she has to leave.
"What'd you do with the college brochures?" I ask as I settle into the driver’s seat.
"They're somewhere back there." She waves a casual hand over her shoulder. "I've got a lot of time to go over them now."
Okay. So she's not abandoned the idea of college. She probably graduated early to attend college earlier. She's always been smart like that. I was getting worried over nothing. She hasn’t come home to stay. She’s come home to pass a few days until she moves on to her next adventure—somewhere far away from Marjory’s and the city…and me.
That thought leaves a bitter residue in my mouth. I swallow again, but it doesn't go away. We don't speak again until we arrive at the apartment. Bitsy is tired and I’m a mess of contradictions. If I open my mouth, I will be telling her to leave one second and begging her to stay the next.
As I pull next to the curb, Terry, the doorman, rushes over to open the car door.
When Bitsy steps out of the car, she gives him an uncharacteristically curt nod. "I told you I lived here."
Terry flushes all the way to his dyed roots. A frown creases my brow. Am I going to have to teach my doorman a painful lesson?
"What happened?" I demand.
"Sh-She didn't have proof you lived here," Terry stammers.
I turn to Bitsy. “Where was your key?”
She yawns and stretches. “I didn’t have it. We left so fast and it wasn’t in my things. Besides, I didn’t realize I would need it. Why would I be locked out of my own home?”
Shamefaced, I give Terry another nod, this time not so curt. It's not his fault this mess up happened. It's mine. I'm off my game. I lost track of Bitsy, allowed her to spend time with people I despise, and kept her from her home. If anyone should get pistol-whipped, it's me.
"Sorry," I mutter.
She shrugs. "I'm tired. Can we get this stuff tomorrow?"
"I'll have everything delivered," Terry proclaims, eager to make up for the misunderstanding.
"That would be great." She gives him a thumbs-up.
I want to protest. Everything should stay in the car because Bitsy will be leaving soon, but the girl is too worn out for an argument. Besides, no one needs to know about our business but us.
"Okay," I give in.
I usher her over to the elevator. She slumps against me, a warm, curvy, sleepy bundle of sweetness.
A dozen inappropriate thoughts swim through my sick head of her snuggling up to me after we've worked out our frustrations of the day on each other's bodies. I bat them away. This is my Bitsy. She’s my girl, not some…object. I shouldn’t be having any kind of thoughts about her that involve bare flesh and beds.