Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
He shifts, rolling from his stomach to his good side. I hear a soft moan of discomfort before he settles. And then I feel the mattress dipping as he inches backward. Until his spectacular, boxer brief covered ass is resting up against my thigh.
Oh nooooo. No.no.no.no.no.no.
A wave of fear breaks over me. It feels like my head in being held underwater and I’m fighting for every bit of oxygen. I recognize this feeling. And I know for a fact it will lead me nowhere good.
The next day, Mr. Grumpy Pants is back in full grumpy force.
“I can’t get comfortable.”
“I know. But I can’t give you anything for another hour.” Grabbing an extra pillow, I fluff the darn thing up and place it under his head. He shifts onto his side, then shifts back onto his stomach.
“Can’t you just give it to me now?”
After he did his infrared light therapy and I spread more of the balm on the bruise, he napped on and off most of the day…unfortunately now he’s wide awake.
“Sorry. Can’t. I’ll come back up at eight sharp, okay? Can I get you anything else to drink?”
“You can’t leave.”
Mmmm, okay. How to handle this. He’s been growing more and more demanding as the day wears on and now he’s become downright obnoxious.
“Calvin, I have to go take a shower. I’ve been going all day, and I stink like a goat.”
This has no effect on him, other than eliciting a mulish expression I’ve come to know well.
“I don’t mind goats,” he grumbles.
I get a really bad idea and sit on the edge of the bed. “Close your eyes.” For this, I am treated to a dubious glare. “Do it.”
That seems to do the trick. As soon as his eyes close, I start sifting my fingers through his hair. In seconds, his entire face goes slack. He makes a small humming sound and lets out a huge relaxed breath. Ten minutes later, he’s asleep. Hallelujah. Mission accomplished.
It’s nine by the time I get out of the shower. I’m beat with a capital B. Don’t know what I would’ve done if Angelina and Tom hadn’t taken Sam for the day. The kid came back with a huge grin on his face so I suppose he had fun. My cellphone rings with an incoming text.
I can’t sleep. Where are you?
Good grief. I never figured him to be so high maintenance. And then I suddenly realize that he’s probably never had anyone to take care of him. It certainly never happened when he was a kid. Outside of team personnel, who are paid to do it, who else would’ve? His wife, maybe? Truth: she did not look like the mothering type. I would even use the term cold. This does not sit well with me. I text back.
What can I do for you, Dear?
A second later, I get my answer.
You can get you ass over here.
Well…okay. I walk into his bedroom to find him sprawled out haphazardly––in his underwear. Funny how that barely registers anymore; I’m actually more surprised when I see him dressed. His short hair is disheveled and his scruff thick from not shaving. The frustrated look on his face warns me to tread lightly.
“Since you asked so nicely.” I walk up and hand him the pills I sequestered yesterday when I found him sneaking an extra one.
“I can’t get comfortable, and I can’t sleep anymore.”
“Wanna watch Banshee?”
“The hell is that?” he grunts.
“Only the sickest effing show ever. All the cool kids are watching it, Champ. Welcome to the rest of the world where football isn’t the only thing on tv.” I crawl onto the bed beside him and grab the remote. “I’m not giving you any spoilers, so don’t even bother asking.” I fluff two of his mega luxurious goose down pillows, jam them behind my back, and click the in demand button.
We’re just settling down to watch, when Calvin shift perpendicular to me and places his head on my thighs, facing the television. Apparently, my thighs are being appropriated and used as a pillow. My heart squeezes a little, it really does. I’m unsure how to react. But I do know that I don’t want to scare him off, so I don’t say a word.
“Do that scratching thing,” he mumbles. And I melt just little bit more. I can’t say no to this man. It’s beyond me. Especially when he’s being so obnoxiously cute.
Dang, this is really bad.
For the next few hours, we watch the show. He asks questions and I tell him to shut up and pay attention. I never stop touching him though. First his hair and his neck. I get sigh after sigh. Then his arm and shoulder. I get hums for that. Anything I can reach gets petted. It keeps him happy and quiet––a win, win. By the end of season two, we’re both practically asleep and my thighs are numb.