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 couldn’t string you along,” I add.
She says nothing. Just sort of hums thoughtfully.
“I wanted to though. Not string you along. But see you more. Again and again,” I say into the reflection, forcing myself to face the truth of how I felt back then. I felt so much more than I told her. Than I told anyone.
“Me too. I wanted that too.”
My heart thumps, missing what never happened. But at least that week no longer hangs unspoken between us. I squeeze her hand tighter. “How’s your head?”
“A little better. You mobilized quickly to heal me.”
“I hated to see you sick. I want to make it better.”
She smiles. “The doctor in you.”
I shake my head. “It’s not the doctor in me,” I say, firm and clear.
She takes off the mask, sets it on the pillow, turns her gaze to me. “No?”
My breath hitches. Her bright eyes on me are turning me inside out. “It’s just you.”
She sighs softly, then curls up in my arms. “How was it? Seeing your dad?”
I snort. Then scoff. “He wants me to give a speech at his retirement party this weekend.”
“Will you?”
“I said yes,” I say. “And he invited everyone. All our friends.” Wait. She probably knows that. He said his assistant invited her. But what if I could do it first? “Have you checked your email?” I ask with some urgency.
“No.”
“Good.” I don’t want him to be the one to invite her. That RSVP belongs to me and me alone. “He’s going to invite you, but I want to instead.”
“So you’re beating him to the punch?”
“Yes. Will you go with me?”
She hums, then shoots me a quizzical look. “Will you be pretending to be one of my dates?”
I growl. Then knit my brow. Then breathe hard through my nostrils.
She laughs. “That’s a no.”
Damn straight. “Go with me. Just me.”
“I’ll go with you. Just you.”
I wrap my arm more tightly around her, tugging her against the crook of my neck. “I got you flowers too.”
“I saw. I put them in a vase in the kitchen. That was sweet of you. They’re fiery.”
Like you. I saw them and thought of you. Everything makes me think of you. But I can’t say any of that, or I’d be a dick who can’t back up those words. Instead, I keep my reply simple. “The guy ahead of me in the store was getting flowers. That reminded me the market had them.”
There. I’m not totally revealing I’m obsessed with her.
“I like them. And the body spray and the bath bomb. And I know I’ll like the sandwich.”
And that was a lot of gifts. Might as well slap a billboard on me that says I’m too into you. “Funny story. The guy who was buying the bouquet was also buying a box of cereal,” I say, deflecting once more.
“Someone was optimistic,” she says, amused.
“That’s exactly what I thought when I saw it,” I say, then kiss her forehead. Fuck it. “And I couldn’t wait to tell you.”
Soon, I undo my slacks and take off my shirt and stay the night with her.
In the morning, when she’s off doing yoga, I finish painting. Then, I get ready to take her on a date as Dashiell.
That guy has no idea how lucky he is.
23
NEVER BEEN KISSED
Juliet
At the go-kart check-in counter that afternoon, I peer at the wooden sign listing the rules, then touch my wrist.
Shoot.
I turn to Monroe. Or Dashiell I should say. “I didn’t bring a hair tie,” I say with a wince. One of the rules is Tie up long hair or tuck it into your collar.
“No problem,” he says, in a kind of hipster cool that matches the outfit. He’s decked out in jeans and a plaid button-down, left open over a white T-shirt. The cuffs are rolled up on the button-down, showing off those forearms I can’t ignore. With his ink, he definitely looks the part of the cool, laidback brewer. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, fishing around. “Here you go,” he says, handing me a black elastic hair tie.
My lips part in surprise. “You brought one?”
He gives a no-big-deal shrug. “Scanned the rules last night when I found the place. Wanted to make sure we could do it.”
Instant grin. “Thank you,” I say, then loop it around my hair. With that done, and helmets in hand, we head to the outdoor track. “Thanks again for paint—”
But I stop myself. He’s not Monroe, who finished the bedroom this morning while I was out. He’s Dashiell, the ball-playing brewer who likes dogs and deep conversations, and I’m supposed to use this first date to practice my getting-to-know-him skills for a grade. I backpedal and try again. “So, are you a big fan of go-karting?”
Ugh. That’s so basic. I need to talk better on this first date.
“I’ve gone a few times. But what about you? This is your first time?” he asks quickly—no, smoothly—shifting gears.