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’m glad it’s going well, but don’t be afraid to listen to your gut,” I say.
She gives me a friendly smile. “I hear you. I’ll let you know if my gut says something interesting.”
“You do that,” I say, then flash back to a time at a football game when I saw her boss — the billionaire owner of the football team looking at her longingly when we were all in the suite. Something in his eyes made me feel like…he really saw her. Understood her even. “Maybe Brady is the right guy for you. Or maybe there’s someone else.”
“Can you send me this someone else right now?” She jokes, then waves when we reach the chocolate shop. “Have fun with your mom.”
“I will. Can’t wait to hear more about your guy,” I say, then add, “Or your someone else.”
She laughs. “Yes, me too.”
As she leaves I head into Elodie’s, scanning the shop for a familiar face. There she is. Mom’s clutching a cup of hot chocolate and waving frantically to me from a table.
Like I could miss her in her pink sneakers, flare jeans and a sleek white top. But it’s not even the fashion mom look that stands out. It’s the glow on her cheeks.
“I seriously need your skin care tips,” I say when I join her.
She wiggles a brow. “It’s called…wait for it…a third date.”
My eyebrows rise. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Tonight. Tell me everything I need to know about third dates these days,” she says, then waves a hand. “Well everything you don’t say on the podcast. Since I do listen.”
It’s sweet that she does. Though, that might also mean she knows Monroe gives it to me good every night. Hmm. Must rethink what I share. Not that I shared intimate details, but I don’t exactly keep it a secret that he makes me grab the sheets every night. But I push those thoughts aside as I answer Mom. “Then, you pretty much know about the, ahem, sex-pectations of the third date,” I say.
She scoffs. “Please. That was the first date. Why do you think my skin looks so good?”
And I’m a little speechless. But I’m all ears as she asks me what to do if Josiah, the hardware store owner, wants to ask her to DTR tonight when they have dinner here in the city.
“I don’t think you need to define the relationship tonight,” I say.
“Oh good, because I just want to keep this little situationship we have for a bit longer,” she says, then smiles.
It’s the kind of carefree grin I never really saw growing up. I’m so glad it’s there.
“I have the perfect tunes for our road trip,” I declare as we cross the Golden Gate Bridge that afternoon.
“Is that so?” Monroe sounds highly suspicious.
“Trust me.” With the Saturday afternoon sun bright and bold through the windows, I toggle through Spotify, hunting for the playlist I made, when Monroe reaches over to the console and hits a button.
News blasts through the car, something about politics and D.C. and it’s all so screechy it sounds like a hyena sawing a trumpet. “Make it stop, make it stop,” I whine, stabbing the off button.
“I sensed you were attempting to subject me to show tunes,” he says.
“And you did subject me to news,” I retort.
“All’s fair in love and road trips.”
“Don’t make me play Rodgers and Hammerstein,” I seethe playfully.
“Don’t make me break out the top of the hour.”
I flash him a scathing look as we wind through the Marin Headlands, on the start of our drive to Darling Springs.
“Fine,” I concede. “How about a compromise?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“For every Pearl Jam, you give me one Tate McRae.”
“I have no idea who that is,” he says drolly.
“I know. But she’s hot and makes me want to fuck you.”
He hits the play button on my phone so fast.
I smile. I guess I won. He listens to my music the whole way, and when we get to our room at The Ladybug Inn he throws me down on the bed, hikes up my skirt and fucks me on all fours till I’m screaming his name.
Then we get dressed for a wedding.
With Monroe in slacks and a button-down—cuffs rolled up to show off the flowers and that ladybug ink I love madly—we leave the inn and walk down Main Street. We’re early for the wedding. Quite early. But Monroe was insistent we leave soon so we could walk to the farm even though it won’t take too long.
We pass the arcade, Monroe tugging on my hand as the old Frogger machine winks at us from inside the window. “I have a confession,” he says, using the same words he did that night of our first date.
Tingles rush through me as I anticipate him telling me he wants to kiss me, like he said that night too. “Tell me.”