Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I had a hunch he’d felt the same spark I did, but I wasn’t sure what to do next. Was I too young for my brother’s friend? I was twenty-two to his twenty-seven.
But the man didn’t leave me wondering. “Want to get a drink, ice cream, soda, coffee, bowl, anything, everything, whatever you like?”
It was already the best ask-out ever, then he added, “Tonight.”
Clearly, being his friend’s little sister wasn’t an issue—to him, or to me. That date at the local arcade turned into a fantastic week ending in an unforgettable night. The way he kissed me, touched me, talked to me, both dirty and tender…It was thrilling and arousing all at once.
But as we roll into his hometown eight years later, I have to shove away those memories. I don’t want to linger on that summer, given its inevitable end and the hurt I swallowed and shoved into a corner where no one—not Monroe, not Sawyer, not anyone—would ever see it.
Besides, it only lasted a week, and I’m over it, one hundred percent and then some.
Monroe turns down the AC at last, and I steal a glance at him. He looks stoic as he drives along the main drag. He’s probably not thinking of that time we shared. Like his dad, he’s probably thinking of…work. Monroe’s good at his job, and he helps people, so it’s not the worst thing.
But it’s for the best, then, that nothing came of our brief summer fling. We’d have been terrible for each other long-term. We want different things.
I want it all. He doesn’t.
I roll down my window and breathe in the fresh seaside air, letting go of the bittersweet memory as we cruise down Main Street. It smells like warm days and breezy nights as we pass The Slippery Dipper, its awning freshly laundered, its sketch of the woman just as cheeky as it was that day eight years ago.
I half expect to see the store manager outside, sweeping the sidewalk like she did back then, offering boisterous hellos and pieces of life advice to everyone passing by.
If she saw us, what would she say?
I whip my gaze away, just in case. But as the shop fades in the rearview mirror, there’s a tinge of something else in my chest.
Not sure what though. A bittersweet feeling? Maybe regret? Or is that a hint of longing?
Whatever it is, I’m not going to think about it too much. We have too much to do in the next week.
Like get a house ready to sell.
Soon, we’re driving down a winding road into the golden California afternoon, the sunlight reflecting off the water as the GPS announces we’re two hundred feet from our destination.
I’m antsy and excited, especially when the home comes into view. It’s stinking adorable.
Thank god. I sigh in happy relief. This will be the perfect place for my dating regroup. I bet while I straighten up the house, I’ll figure out the best path forward when it comes to romance. All that cozy will be good for my soul.
“It looks so much better than the pictures.”
“It’s a charming California coastal cottage,” Monroe says, shoulders relaxing, white-knuckle grip on the wheel loosening slightly.
He slows the car on the gravel driveway. As soon as he turns it off, I fling open the door, then dart up the wooden steps to the quaint wraparound porch before propriety gets the better of me.
I really should wait for my…co-owner. “C’mon. Let’s check out our home,” I say, giddy now that it’s real. I’ve only ever rented. I don’t own a single square foot of space in the city. San Francisco real estate is far too expensive for me. And this cottage is Pinterest perfection with its freshly painted exterior, its picturesque wraparound porch, and its bright white door with the gleaming brass knocker.
When I turn back to urge Monroe to hurry, he’s right behind me, trotting up the steps. Seems he’s eager too. He swipes open the screen on his phone, taking a moment to find what he’s looking for. As he reads, I study the knocker. Is that a couple twisted around each other in an embrace? Aww, that’s sweet.
“Here’s the code,” he says. “Six-nine-six-nine.”
My fingers hover, poised over the keypad, and I look up, arching a brow at the naughty combo. “Sixty-nine, sixty-nine?”
“Yes,” he says, completely deadpan.
“Okay,” I say, then punch in the number, bouncing in my Converse as I swing open the door.
5
MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE CEILING
Monroe
In the doorway of the main bedroom, I stand scratching my jaw, trying to understand why anyone over the age of twelve would want bunk beds at all, let alone two king-size ones stacked on top of each other. I hunt for words and come up blank except for the obvious. The only thing to say, actually: “Why?”
Next to me, Juliet gawks at the double serving of bed. She must be wondering the same damn thing.