Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 137310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Hmm.
I liked this.
I wasn’t sure anyone enjoyed taking out the garbage, but what I knew was, I didn’t.
“Unless she’s got some knowledge of them, any vehicles we own are my domain,” he went on.
I liked this too because I had no knowledge of them, but also because the maintenance and purchasing of them was a pain in the ass.
“I don’t do yards, but she’s not gonna either. We’ll hire out,” he continued.
“What if she likes doing yards?” I asked, regardless of the fact that I’d never done yardwork in my life, and I hoped I lived the rest of it not doing any.
He narrowed his eyes on me. “You like doing yardwork?”
“I’ve never done it, but even so, I feel I can safely proclaim that I do not.”
“So in this context, does the answer to your question matter?”
“Kind of. I mean, if she likes mowing and trimming and all of that, would you not let her do it?”
He thought about this.
And then he said, “Yeah, but then I’d have to do it with her.”
“Why?”
“Multiple reasons.”
“Name two,” I challenged.
“One, because she might like doin’ it, but it’s still work. Shit can get under your skin, you think you’re carrying more than your share of the load. So I’d pitch in so she didn’t think she was carrying me.”
That was a ridiculously good answer.
“Two,” he carried on, “because my guess is, if she’s my woman, I like spending time with her, so even if you don’t dig everything she digs, you find ways to spend time together.”
Oh my fucking God.
That was a ridiculously good answer too.
How was this guy all that was this guy?
“We done with your interrogation?” he asked.
“I’m not interrogating you,” I declared.
His head tipped to the side and one side of his lips hitched up.
I rolled my eyes and tugged his hand to get us going again, admitting, “Okay. Minor interrogation. Relax. I didn’t pull out the thumbscrews.” I paused for maximum comical effect. “This time.”
He chuckled and beeped the locks on my car.
I got in the passenger side of Baby Shark, a seat I’d never taken.
It was comfy.
As I put on my belt, Hugger adjusted the driver’s side before he even attempted to fold in.
It seemed he did it without too much trouble, however, he looked squeezed in once he closed the door.
And now I was considering buying a new car…for a man. Even if it’d be my car and only sometimes would he be driving it.
Yeesh.
I had it bad.
The thing was, deep down, I didn’t really care.
No.
I was pretending to care because I felt like I was supposed to, even though it felt totally right having it bad for Hugger.
“Are you comfortable?” I inquired while he was latching his belt.
“No. Because I’m scared as fuck one of Phoenix’s desperado drivers is gonna make us become one with this scrap of metal.”
That was when I chuckled and leaned forward to program Dad’s address into the satnav so Hugger could get us there without me having to direct him.
We headed out.
“Do you only own your bike?” I asked.
“Nope. We get weather in Denver, so I also got a truck.”
“What color is it?”
“Silver.”
“Do you like snow?”
“Lanie and Hop got a place up in Vail. They let anyone use it if they aren’t up there. I like to head up when it snows. Their place is away from the slopes. Peaceful. Seems more of that when snow is on the ground.”
I could see that.
“Don’t like drivin’ in it,” he continued. “I know how. Others don’t. They’re the problem and you got no control over it.”
“I’ve never driven in snow, and I need a jacket if it gets close to seventy degrees,” I shared.
He busted out laughing.
I reveled in it because I was noticing he didn’t laugh all that much.
There were smiles, chuckles, but not much laughter.
Through it, he asked, “Seventy degrees?”
“I’ve got desert girl blood.”
“I guess so,” he murmured, and chuckled anew, saying. “Seventy degrees. You must have been in hell in London.”
“Oddly, no. I grew to form a great appreciation for jumpers and boots.”
“Jumpers?”
“What they call sweaters.”
“Why do they call them jumpers?”
“No idea. Though it was fun learning all their different words for things,” I told him, then asked, “Have you been out of the country?”
He took a turn on Lincoln Drive. “Nope.”
“Ever want to go?”
He shifted his ass in his seat and said, “Never really thought about it.”
He “never really thought about” what he wanted to be when he grew up either.
I found that alarming when I learned it, as I thought it alarming that he hadn’t thought about vacationing outside the US.
If he said, “Nothing I want to see outside this great country,” I would get it, even if I wouldn’t agree with it, because I wanted to go everywhere. It was part of who I was. It was part of why I became who I became.