Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
That may seem harsh, but she’d say the same damn thing.
Normally, I’d plan a vacation on a sunny beach somewhere but in a few weeks, I’ll be headed to the U.S. Virgin Islands to attend Brooke and Bishop’s wedding. The entire team is going for a week to participate in a continued celebration of the Cup win in addition to their nuptials. It’s going to be just one long party, and I’m looking forward to it.
Maybe I could head to Wyoming for a few days of fishing, something I got into over the last few years and really enjoy.
Or maybe I should go bum around Europe for a bit. I have several teammates who would be up for just such an adventure.
Regardless, anything I decide will have to wait until after Bishop and Brooke’s wedding during the first week of July because my weekends are already accounted for until then.
Up ahead, I see they’re doing some sidewalk construction on my normal route. At the next light, I decide to turn left, jogging in place while I wait for the light to change. As other mid-morning strollers casually jaunt over the crosswalk, I take off running again. Rush hour is over and most people are at their places of work, but I still have to weave in and out of other pedestrians.
This is a street I haven’t been on. I pass a coffee shop, a small drugstore, and what looks like a bookshop.
I glance in the window of the latter, my gaze landing on an incredibly gorgeous woman behind the cash register. It’s really just a glimpse as I run by, but her auburn-colored hair gathered in a messy bun on top of her head and the most stunning pair of eyes shining from under a pair of rectangular, black-framed glasses catch my attention.
Now, glasses aren’t normally my thing on a woman, but, in this instance, they work. I can’t tell if her eyes are green or blue, but they’re light-colored, in stark contrast against her fiery hair with tendrils escaping her updo and framing her pretty face.
And just as quickly as I spot her, she’s gone because I’m past the bookstore and reaching the end of the block.
To return to my route, I should cut right and head uptown, but I can’t shake that tiny glimpse of gorgeousness I just witnessed, so I decide to take another peek at the woman. I kick up my pace. Rather than turn around and go back, I decide to circle the block to get my paces in.
When I reach the bookstore and slow my pace to get a better look at the woman, disappointment sets in because she’s no longer behind the register. I can’t spot her anywhere. Granted, there’s a lot going on inside the shop. It’s more than just a bookstore as in addition to rows of books, there are tables and free-standing shelves that host a variety of knickknacks for sale. It looks cozy, interesting, and crowded at the same time, but there’s no beautiful redhead.
And once again, the bookstore is behind me—the opportunity she represented now firmly in my rearview mirror.
I get to the end of the block, determined to turn right and get back on route. For some reason, though, I don’t enter the crosswalk when the light turns green. Jogging in place, I peek over my shoulder at the bookstore, weighing my options.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, pivoting and heading back that way.
Slowing to a walk a good ten yards from the door, I take deep breaths to get my heart rate into a normal range and cut the sound from my iPhone strapped onto my bicep. My breathing evens out quickly because, despite the ten days of gluttony and debauchery, I’m still in great shape. I reach an arm up, wipe my sweaty brow on my sleeve, and take one last deep breath.
Pushing open the door to the bookstore, I note the name painted in gold letters—Clarke’s Corner. A tinkling bell announces my arrival, and a husky voice calls out from somewhere behind the bookshelves.
“Be there in a moment.”
“Take your time,” I reply loud enough to carry, then proceed to browse around.
It’s an incredibly cute place. All the furniture, including the four long rows of bookshelves that are jam-packed with paperbacks and hardcover editions, are painted in a glossy white. The walls are done in a pale blue, covered with paintings by what look to be local artists. They must be commissioned for sale, because they have price tags. Tables are loaded with trinkets such as bookends, candlesticks, tiny lamps, gilded frames, and other objects used for decoration.
“Hi.” That same voice hits my ears, but much closer, and I turn to find the beautiful woman I saw earlier there.
Without being too obvious, I take more of her in. She’s wearing faded, worn jeans along with a pair of pink sandals. A gauzy, loose shirt of mint green hangs off one shoulder with a white tank underneath.