Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“No harm done.” I squat down in front of Curly Cookie, who whap, whap, whaps himself in a wriggly mess. His big chocolate eyes are so adorable that no one on earth could stay mad at him. I’m dripping puddles of water all over, but when I extend a hand, a soft, pink tongue comes out to lick the back. It’s a long tongue. It surprises me, actually. I wonder if Curly Cookie ever gets a mouthful of flies. That’s how long his tongue is.
“I’ve set some clothes inside the bathroom for you. Have a shower, then I’ll have a snack waiting.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“Nonsense.” She winks at me. “I’m going to make Van join us, so I set out something a little extra special for you.”
The shower is nice and hot, and I use a generous amount of lavender-scented shampoo and coconut and papaya scented conditioner. It’s quite a combination. Nothing compares to the combination of an outfit that I have to put on after my said shower. It’s quite…vibrant. I study myself in the bathroom mirror. At least the fit is decent, though the leopard print mini dress and chartreuse leggings are quite something else. Whatever. I’m thankful there are leggings, so my bottom doesn’t have to hang out of the crazy tight, crazy short dress.
My hands shake when I run them through the wet strands of my hair. There’s no brush in here. I salvage what I can and pull it into the elastic I saved from before. The headband is headed for the trash, but it pinched behind the ears anyway.
You can do this. You can have lunch with Van, and everything can be normal.
Yeah right. I blink at myself, and even to me, my eyes look all heated, the pupils enlarged, the irises glowing a bright blue. I’m wearing my hope right there, not on my sleeve but stamped all over my face. At least when I was covered in dirt, it was harder to tell. This is too naked, too open, and I don’t think I can shut it down.
I mean, it’s no biggie. It’s not like I have to sit across from the man I’ve spent so much of my life feeling things for, shutting it down, being unable to shut it down, wondering about him, needing to stop wondering, being unable to stop wondering. It’s not like he kissed me last night or anything. It’s not like it was a surprise to both of us; kind of rushed, not even that sensual, barely open-mouthed. It’s not like I couldn’t feel the pain behind it, the plea to see and save him. Alright, so it was like that, and yes, he ran away after, but maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe it was the whole fly-breath thing. It’s not like we need to talk it out. Although, yes, we need to talk it out. But seriously, we’re not going to do that at the table with Nanny right there.
I sweep my hands down my ribs, angling to study the dress. I’m not wearing a bra underneath since the only one I have is sopping wet. I just hope my nipples don’t go doing anything stupid like noticing how insanely beautiful Van is and getting appreciative. I can get through this without looking at him, right? No. Not right. I’ll always have his image burned into my brain.
Including the pain that I saw in his eyes last night as rain sluiced around him and lightning flashed in the sky. He looked alone. Alone and lonely.
Ugh, this is going to have to do, leopard print and all. At least I didn’t have to stand here with a thousand outfits, wondering what to wear, and at least I got up my courage to come here at all instead of hiding at my parents’ house and wondering what the hell happened last night. I guess the only thing left to do is go out there and face whatever is still coming.
CHAPTER 9
Van
Well, look at me. Still here, still kicking, and still alive to fight another day despite the ultra amount of humiliation that went down last night and having to face up to it in the backyard. Curly Cookie did me a solid in a way. He provided the icebreaker—the poop breaker, as it was.
Nanny’s French toast makes it better. Even the sulkiest, most sullen of bastards has to perk up at the smell of fried egg, sugary goodness, spicy cinnamon, and mouth-watering maple syrup. No matter what my nerves are doing, I force myself to keep my eyes on the platter on the table with the mountain of toast that Nanny has produced, seemingly out of thin air—she’s a magician in the kitchen—and not on Remi, who sits in the chair across from me.
Nanny takes the one at the end, and Curly Cookie has his own bowl full of dog food on the floor. He munches away, crunching, slobbering, and smacking his lips. For someone who just sprayed dung all over the place, he’s still pretty darn cute.