Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I hated that.
I was such a control freak, to the point that I never let myself get too drunk because I didn’t want to not be in complete control of myself and my image.
I damn sure didn’t want to black out and have no idea what I did the night before.
But he was probably right. If it didn’t come back yet, it likely isn’t going to. So being upset about that is just a waste of energy.
“We’re going to figure this out, honey,” Brock said, nodding. “You just have to trust us and give us some time.”
Him.
I had to trust him.
Because as much as I was sure Sawyer and Tig were one call away, and keeping abreast of all the details of the case, they clearly weren’t the ones working the case. Brock was.
The thing was, I did trust him.
Almost implicitly.
The problem was that I didn’t trust myself. Around him. Especially now that I knew I wore my desire right there on my face for him to see.
That was going to be an issue. Especially since I didn’t seem to have any control over my feelings toward him. The longer I spent with him, the worse it seemed to be getting.
I just had to… distract myself.
No more trips out with him when he didn’t need me to tag along. No more going out to eat, just the two of us.
I was sure there was extra work I could be doing instead. There was always work that could be getting done. I needed to focus on that, let him handle the case, and keep some damn distance.
Luckily, conversation dipped back to more casual things as our food arrived and we ate.
By the time we were done, I had to admit to him that he was right. It was the best Italian I’d ever had. And I would likely be back weekly if I lived closed, regardless of who owned it.
“Brock, no,” I objected as the server brought the book over to him.
“Miranda, yes,” he shot back as he reached for his wallet.
“This is ridiculous. Technically, you’re working for me. That makes this a business dinner. I should be paying.”
“And yet… you’re not,” he said, slipping his card into the book and holding it out for the server to grab on her way past.
I liked to pay a lot of the time.
I felt like it gave me a little more power.
When a man paid, they often thought of it as transactional. They bought the meal, so you owed them something.
When I paid, they didn’t get to have that entitled train of thought.
That said, I couldn’t deny that Brock insisting on paying twice was giving me the warm and tinglies.
“So… coffee?” I asked as we made our way out of the front door.
“I would never go back on my word when it comes to She’s Bean Around,” he agreed, placing a hand at my lower back, then sliding it to my hip, as we started down the very steep, somewhat slippery from the water, stairs.
Just a few minutes later, we were standing on a long line, listening to some song I remembered from years ago about people doing it like on the Discovery Channel while the women behind the counter sang at the top of their lungs as they prepared drinks at lightning speed.
I employed the help of Brock to help me carry all the bags of coffee I was going to take home with me. Including all their regular blends and their flavored ones, inwardly wondering if they carried seasonal ones around holidays or not.
“Well, we know what your pretty-ass wants,” the woman said, looking Brock up and down in a way that was both appreciative, yet dismissive. “What can we get your pretty ass?” she asked, looking at me. “Aside from almost every bag of coffee we have in the building.
“I know it’s rude to clear shelves, but I don’t live here, and I need all of this,” I told her as she rang them up and put them in canvas bags with their logo on them.
“Hey, we are never going to complain about making some extra money,” the woman, whose name tag said Jazzy, declared. “How about you order something snazzy, since you have all this regular stuff for home?” she suggested, waving up toward the latte section of the menu on the wall behind her.
After some hemming and hawing, I decided I had to go with the caramel Praline latte with an extra shot.
“Of course you want whipped cream on that, correct?” Jazzy asked, giving me a knowing smile.
“It seems almost wrong not to have it,” I agreed.
“I like her,” Jazzy told Brock.
“Me too,” he agreed.
It was a throwaway comment, damnit. He didn’t mean it the way my stupid little heart skip wanted him to mean it.
Unsurprisingly, Brock slipped cash across the counter before I could even reach for my wallet.