Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Sounds good to me.”
I help her slip into a wool coat she had draped over her arm. She reaches up to adjust the collar, her hand brushing against mine, and I swear prickles of electricity dance across my skin. We head out into the twilight, chatting about tonight’s practice. Both of us are quick to mention our gratitude that we didn’t have to deal with little Theo’s dad.
When we reach the restaurant, we’re led to a small wooden table in the back corner, bordered by windows on either side. Pedestrians hustle by, bundling up against the late-November chill. We’re in a vibrant area near downtown with lots of restaurants, so it’s busy for a Monday night.
Helping Willa out of her coat, I hang it over her chair after pulling it out for her. She murmurs a thank-you as she grabs a menu the waitress had left.
“So, what’s good here?” she asks, looking even more beautiful in a pair of blue-framed glasses she pulled from her purse. She’s got this whole sexy, smart vibe going that is way too appealing and makes me eager to get to know more about her.
But first things first… food. I point on the menu to an eggs Benedict special that’s one of my favorite meals ever. Willa reads it out loud. “Sourdough bread, goat cheese, spinach, Vidalia-peach hot sauce, grilled marinated flank steak with poached eggs and hollandaise.” Her eyes rise to mine, appreciation reflected in her stormy blue depths. “You’re quite the foodie.”
“If by foodie, you mean I like all food, yeah… there’s that.”
Willa’s eyes crinkle as she laughs and my head tilts, captivated by the sound. It’s a musical cascade, like she’s got a secret stash of happiness inside, and she shares it with the world every time she laughs. “It’s a good thing I like food too. I think I’m going to get that.” The glasses come off and are tucked back into her purse.
A waitress brings us water and we order our meal, spending the moments in between talking about the Ice Pups’ schedule. They only practice once a week, every Monday at six p.m., and one game a week, every Saturday at eight a.m. We pull out our phones, mostly looking over my hockey schedule but also a few conflicts that Willa might have with her work schedule.
We both make notations on which ones I can and can’t make. “For the ones I can’t be at, I’ll give you a list of things to do at practice. Then at the very next game, it’s those skills we’ll want the kids to concentrate on.”
“You’re really a godsend,” Willa says before taking a sip of her water. She had wrinkled her nose at the paper straw offered, explaining she can’t stand the way they feel against her mouth and that made me concentrate way too hard on said mouth.
Her lips look as soft as petals and her smile has an undeniable allure. The curve of her mouth hints at secrets and wonders hidden within and I can’t help but imagine how her lips would feel against mine. It’s impossible not to be captivated by that lush mouth, so much so that I have to force myself to focus on the conversation.
But Jesus… even trying to meet her gaze as she talks is an effort in futility. I had thought her eyes were pure gray but as I study them, they’re actually a matte iron blue. They’re like the color of the sky on a rainy day just before the sun breaks through, and set against her pale skin, brown hair and golden streaks, they’re shockingly brilliant. The rest of her face is perfect, but my favorite part by far is the smattering of freckles across her nose, cheeks and forehead.
And it suddenly hits me…
“I’m assuming one of your parents has brown hair like yours, and red like Brittany’s?” Because the sisters look nothing alike.
Willa laughs, shaking her head in bemusement. “You’re not the first to notice Brittany and I don’t look like one another. Our parents are both blond with brown eyes. I’m actually adopted and well, Brittany… she picked up a recessive gene somewhere. She came along two years after me with red hair and was quite the surprise to my parents who couldn’t get pregnant before her.”
“I bet that’s been the source of a lot of jokes in your family.” I chuckle. Willa’s smile slips, then fades completely, and I know I’ve put my foot in my mouth for a reason I can’t fathom. “I’m sorry… did I say something wrong?”
She reaches across the table, her hand patting mine reassuringly. Her smile returns, once again given from the heart, but I can see naked honesty shining in her eyes. “You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just… the way Brittany looks was a very sore subject with our father. He was an alcoholic and verbally abusive to our mother, and sometimes to us kids. One of his favorite things to rant about was Brittany’s curly red hair. When he’d go on a bender, he’d accuse my mom of sleeping with someone else and that’s why she got pregnant with Brittany and why she looks so different from them.”