Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“It’s an old Queen Anne Victorian that was crumbling when I bought it. I was in a bidding war with a dentist,” I added. “But I hated the idea of it getting snatched up and painted white like all the doctor’s offices do to old houses. I wanted to restore it, then pick some classic, colorful theme to put on it. Still can’t figure that out, though,” I admitted.
“I love Victorians,” she said, beaming at me. “All those unique little details they always have,” she said, letting out a little sigh.
And what did my mind do?
Placed her in that house of mine.
Standing barefoot in the kitchen, dancing around to some song crooning on the record player. In my backyard, tearing out all the old, overgrown, woody shrubs, and filling it with happy flowers. In the living room, draped over the couch, thumbing through one of her books. And, yes, in my bed. Naked, arching off the mattress, into me, crying out my name as her body shuddered…
No.
Nope.
Couldn’t let my mind go there.
But it was already too late.
The thought planted, started to take root, grow.
I had to go.
“You need anything else?” I asked, pulling her blanket up from the foot of the bed, and tucking it in gently, avoiding her bad hip.
She looked like she wanted to say something else, but thought better of it at the last moment. A part of me wanted to ask, to insist she tell me. The other part knew that it was better to just let it lie.
“No. This is more than enough. And thank you so much for lunch. Or dinner. Whatever it was. And I’m sorry again for being a crazy person in front of your family,” she said, shaking her head at herself.
“Again, they only loved you more for it,” I said, giving her ankle a squeeze through the blanket. “Now, take it easy for the rest of the night, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed, and I made my way out.
I felt like I didn’t take a deep fucking breath until I was on her front step.
“Fuck,” I grumbled, scrubbing my hands down my face before making my way to the car.
I went home.
Worked on some sanding that needed to be done.
Worked out.
Showered.
Trying all the while not to think of her.
And failing.
I caught maybe three hours of sleep before I woke up from dreams of her in my bed, under me, on top of me. My cock was hard and aching, and I ignored it as I got myself dressed, then in my car.
I didn’t really know where I was going until I pulled down her street.
It was still dark, an hour before sunrise. But Savannah had little solar lights lining all of her flower beds.
I could see enough.
So I got to work on the weeds that were taking over, figuring I could get one thing off her list, and hopefully keep her from trying to do it herself.
“I see you beat me to it,” a voice said, making me whip around to find Sunshine standing there with a fucking headlamp flashlight on and a big basket in her hand.
“Sunshine,” I said, feeling oddly caught. Like the proverbial kid with his hand in the cookie jar. It probably didn’t help that Sunshine was the mother figure in this situation. “I know I’m probably not supposed to be here…” I started, but she waved that away.
“But you know the weeds were driving my sweet girl crazy, so you dragged yourself over here before she woke up, so you can handle it without her feeling guilty about it,” she filled in for me. “I know the feeling,” she added, waving her basket. “I love that girl to the moon and back, but she has a very hard time accepting help of any kind,” she told me as she came up beside me, pulling a kneeling foam mat out of her basket, and getting down to get to business.
“I noticed,” I agreed.
“She lets you help more than she lets me,” Sunshine said, casting a look over at me for a second before focusing on the weeding.
“I think I make her let me help,” I admitted. “Not that I’m bullying her into it,” I added, acutely aware that this was her little girl we were talking about.
“Darling, even if you were, in this case, I think it might be necessary.”
“She opened up the wound in her hip at dinner,” I told her, knowing it was going to come up, and wanting to break the news to her myself.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said. “What happened?”
“My brother,” I admitted. “He was walking into the restaurant as we were leaving, and she saw that he had a gun in a hip holster. And I think it brought back some PTSD or something. She shoved me again, and the movement was a little too much. It’s okay,” I assured her. “I treated it, and I don’t think she needs to go to urgent care or anything unless it looks worse today. But I wanted to let you know.”