Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
The first two are easily solved with some food and a shower.
And the third is far more complicated when, deep down, I’m waiting to hear back from Sammy.
But she’s a single mom with two boys, and her life doesn’t come with a lot of free time. If I want to be with her, I need to get used to coming after a few things on her priority list. That includes hearing back from her when I send her a message.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
I could be immaturely worried and jump to conclusions that Sammy isn’t really the person I think she is and that she’s too busy to answer me because she’s on the phone with Gavin or something. But that wouldn’t be fair to the woman I care about.
Not to mention, the last person I want to think about is that douche in the suit.
Sure, I might be biased when it comes to Sammy, and it might sound real fucking petty of me to write a guy off as a prick without even knowing him, but from the first moment I laid eyes on Gavin in the emergency room a few weeks ago, I didn’t like him.
There’s something disingenuous I can’t quite put my finger on about the way he does things.
And I may not know anything else about the dynamics of Sammy and me and how best to make her life easier, but I sure as hell know that’s my goal.
I look over at Dolly once more—she’s already sound asleep—and decide to do something about being dirty and hungry. Those things are at least entirely under my control.
Down the hall and into the bathroom, I strip out of my clothes and hop into the shower. The warm water feels good against my skin, and I make quick work of cleaning up.
Once I’m out, dried off, and have tossed on a pair of boxer briefs and lounge pants, I head back into the kitchen to make a quick sandwich. Dolly barely opens her eyes to see what I’m doing, and I know she must be tired when she doesn’t even bother waking up to beg for half of my food.
As I spread some mayo over a piece of white bread, my phone pings with a notification, and I snag it off the counter with quick hands.
Though, when I see the sender, the twinge I caused in my neck with my overexcitement feels a little less worth it.
It’s Chase. Not Sammy. How anticlimactic.
Chase: You busy Friday? Want to get the canine lovers together for a bit?
Ever since Dolly found her boyfriend Benji on a fateful day in Central Park, I’ve been blessed with the friendship of his owners, Brooke and Chase. And because of Dolly and Benji’s propensity to get all mopey and shit if they go too long without seeing each other, we’ve developed a routine of getting them together at least once a week. Sometimes it’s more, sometimes they have what Chase loves to call “conjugal visits,” but without fail, it’s always at least one time per week.
Me: I should be free after four. My surgery schedule is morning-heavy.
I set my phone back down on the counter to toss some cheese and lunch meat on my bread, and when my phone pings again, I mindlessly pick it up and open the message.
Sammy: I’ll be honest. I barely remember you leaving this morning. God, I hope I didn’t do or say anything crazy…
Holy shit. I bobble the phone between my hands like a ping-pong ball between paddles as exhilaration floods my veins.
And the stupid smile on my face cannot be contained as I forget about my sandwich and type out a message back.
Me: You just said something about how you wanted to see me again, before doing a live rendition of that “So Long, Farewell” song from The Sound of Music. Nothing major.
Sammy: YOU’RE LYING.
At this point, my smile is downright embarrassing. If Dolly were awake, even she would be making fun of me for it.
Me: I am definitely lying.
Sammy: Very funny. LOL. And just so you know, I had a good time last night too.
Goose bumps cover my skin. Suddenly, text messaging isn’t good enough. I have to hear her voice. With one tap to the screen, a trilling ring fills my ears.
Another one follows suit. But by the third ring, Sammy puts me out of my misery and answers.
“Are you seriously calling me right now?” she questions, but her voice drips with amusement. “Like, on the actual phone?”
I chuckle. “You don’t like phone calls?”
“It’s not so much that I don’t like phone calls, but that I didn’t know people still called each other. It feels like we’re utilizing an ancient form of technology.”
“What can I say, Sam? I’m Grandpa Noah. It was either this or a telegram. And personally, I wanted to hear your voice.”