Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
I take a breath. Here goes. “Noah, I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable yesterday.”
He was about to turn another page in his notebook, but my words stop him.
“I thought I was getting signals from you. But … I think I was clearly misreading them.”
Noah looks up at me from his notebook.
“I’m very sorry,” I go on. “You’re the last person I would want to make uncomfortable or take advantage of. I shouldn’t have …” I peer back at the drink table where Nadine and my fellow bachelor chat, now joined by the man I presume to be Burton’s father, standing there with a cup of coffee. They don’t seem to be hearing any of this, so I feel safe to open up more to Noah. “I … shouldn’t have kissed you like that yesterday. It was presumptuous of me. It was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Noah pushes his glasses up at the bridge of his nose, his little eyes still on me, listening.
“So I guess what I’m trying to say,” I finish, “is … please feel free to just … pretend none of it happened. I can do the same. You certainly have enough on your plate. I don’t want to add any more burden. I just—”
Noah brings his hand toward me.
I freeze.
He brushes something off of my shirt.
I stare into his eyes the entire time, completely and utterly trapped by his sudden desire to touch me. My heart races. My lips part, taken by the gentleness of his fingers. My nerves prickle with excitement that I have no right to enjoy this much.
He pulls his hand back. “Lint,” he mumbles.
I come out of my trance. “What?”
“On your chest. Lint. It’s … It’s gone now.”
I stare at him, at a loss.
It is nearly impossible to maintain my composure now after he just touched me, even if only for the purpose of picking lint off of my shirt. Was that the purpose? Or did he want to touch me?
Is this another signal?
Or am I, yet again, reading way too much into it?
“Uh, thank you,” I say, eyes wide open and unblinking.
“The camera picks up everything,” he explains. “Even a bit of lint will show up. It’s important to check the details.”
I’m trying not to lose my mind here.
But really, is he going to respond at all to anything I just said about the kiss yesterday?
Does he have any idea how badly I want there to be another piece of lint on me, just so he has a reason to touch me again?
“That’s … true,” I make myself say. “The camera doesn’t hide a thing.” Literally, I’m begging for there to be another piece of lint on me somewhere. Or perhaps a makeup smudge. “So … about the kiss yesterday …”
“I’m also sorry for running off,” he mumbles, gazing down at the floor. I perk up with anticipation—until he finishes: “It was my own fault for bringing the wrong notebook and for being totally unprepared. Not to mention my nearly-dead phone. I guess a real professional wouldn’t have let any of that happen.”
I’m literally holding my breath here.
Is he completely dodging the subject?
“Also …” he says, then lifts his eyes to mine with hope.
I stare back with as much hope, desperate for him to tell me it was okay to kiss him, that it was welcomed, that all of the signs I was seeing were true, that he wants this as badly as I do.
Just then, the side door explodes open. Sunlight fills the space like fire, eclipsed crudely by the silhouette of a person staggering inside. When the door shuts at his back, a young man comes into focus. Grease-stained t-shirt. Tattered dusty jeans and boots with clumps of dried mud stuck to them. He approaches, then stops, sways slightly, runs a hand through his sweaty, messy blond hair, then squints at everyone as if the room is full of fog. “We gettin’ this thing started or what?” he barks out. “I’m ready to get me a sexy lady. Or a sugar mama. Or both. Sorry for bein’ late. Fuckin’ alarm clocks, am I right?”
I stare at him, baffled.
Noah, too.
In fact, his entrance has stopped all conversation in the room.
Nadine, after reading said room and deciding she doesn’t like what she’s reading, is the first to speak. “Mr. Anthony Myers, doll face, how are you doin’? Yes, over here by the drinks, that’s where my voice is comin’ from. Hey, sweetheart, come on over here. We need to get you dressed up and in makeup, pronto!”
“Huh? Makeup?” Anthony lets out an unpleasant snort. “Nah, I’m good, fine the way I am, the way God made me, fine enough for the lovely ladies. Could use a new shirt, though. This one’s messed up from the worksite yesterday.”
Mindy lets out a sigh from the makeup station and continues scrolling on her phone, bored.