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)
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “Great.”
I mean, it’s not really a lie. I did have a great date last night.
One well-groomed brow rises. “Oh? Will you see him again?”
Yes, in about twenty minutes, and I can’t wait. “I will.”
Her smile widens. “I had a good feeling a change of scenery would go a long way. So what’s he like?”
I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to lead her on. But I am not going to tell her the truth about Monroe and me. “He’s smart and funny. A little reserved, but not afraid to poke fun at me either,” I say as she flicks through some short-sleeve blouses.
“He sounds great.” She lets go of the clothing hunt, then lets out a mom sigh and squeezes my arm. “I’ve been worried about you.”
I tilt my head. “Why?” I ask.
“Because I worry that your father and I are the example that you and Rachel and Sawyer saw for more than thirty years. And look what happened to Rachel.”
Well, she’s madly in love with her best friend who adores her, but it took a marriage to a man who lied to her about his secret family, then divorcing him to get there.
“Sure. But how does that relate to you and Dad?”
“We were never very affectionate when you were growing up. We were good friends. We still are. But when we were together, we held each other at arm’s length.” Mom smiles wistfully and places a blouse back on the rack. “It took me a while to see that, and I just hope it doesn’t take you all those years,” she says, and someone has definitely been to therapy. Someone is moving quickly through all that self-reflection too.
But my mind whirs with questions that hook into me, that make me think twice about how my parents behaved growing up. Come to think of it, they weren’t very affectionate. They were always nice and kind. But they never danced in the kitchen, or kissed in the hallway, or held hands while walking down the street. “You were never in love with him?”
Mom smiles ruefully. “Once upon a time we both were. Then, we became companions more than lovers. Sometimes that works for some. Sometimes it doesn’t. But for you and your sister and your brother—I don’t want you to just accept the comfort of a relationship. I want you to have sparks and butterflies.”
As she heads to another rack, I noodle on that. I like comfort, but Mustache is comforting. I deserve sparks and butterflies.
But something nags at me. What if I’m not picking well for some subconscious reason? What if it’s not the algorithm? What if it’s me approaching relationships the wrong way?
We’re an hour into redoing the walls in the guest room. The windows are wide open, and we’re painting to the tunes of Pearl Jam.
His choice. Not mine.
“How much older than me are you?” I tease as Eddie Vedder croons something beautiful but incoherent while I roll dove-gray paint up one wall.
As he spreads paint in a corner with a small brush, Monroe shoots me a look. “Old enough to know you deserve this for that remark,” he says, then closes the distance between us and drops a dollop on my nose.
My jaw falls open in mock indignation. “You asked for it, buddy,” I say, then grab a brush from the roller pan like we’re sword fighters. I slash it down his arm. “A new tattoo. From me.”
He grabs my hip, hauls me close, and slides the brush right above my breasts, slow and sensual in a way I didn’t know paint could be. After he drops the brush into the pan, he drags his finger through the paint on my cleavage.
I shiver. Then murmur something unintelligible. Maybe I do understand Pearl Jam.
Monroe’s eyes are blazing, but he’s quiet as he studies me. My eyes, my lips, my chest. I don’t mind his gaze on my breasts at all. I don’t mind it so much, I shiver again.
“What is it?” I eventually ask, breaking the silence.
“You,” he says. “You’re so responsive.”
My eyes float closed for a moment, and I feel a little lost in him. When I open them, I shrug in a sort of helpless admission. “I just like the way you touch me.” Impulsively, I add, “I always have.”
I’m tired of never acknowledging that time we had together. We only started to mention it last night, and it’s been such a welcome relief.
Monroe takes my brush and sets it down in the pan, then drags me against him, our paint-stained clothes between us. “I’ve always liked touching you, Juliet. I did then. I do now.”
I flash back on the conversation with my mom. Sparks and butterflies. I feel too much of them with him. And since he’s willing to talk about the past, I press him more. “Do you ever think about that week?”