Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
In the split second before I realize the stranger’s about to turn around, I try to pat my hair down a little. When he turns, my hand is still on the top of my head, and I awkwardly transition into making it look like I was scratching an itch on my scalp. Smooth, Laurelin, very smooth. Now he thinks you have lice.
“Did that little beast attack your shoes?” he asks. His piercing blue eyes smile along with his mobile mouth. I was right--he’s a 10 on the attractiveness scale if I’ve ever seen one, and may even break the chart entirely. His face body is sculpted and bronzed, and his face fit for a matinee idol with a strong nose, piercing blue eyes, and a square jaw. Black hair waves at his temples, as dark as night, and my mouth goes dry. I have to remind myself to speak.
“Oh, yes,” I manage to croak. “Although, at first I thought he would bite my foot right off.”
“You’re lucky I intervened when I did,” the man chuckles. “That little thing was chasing me, I swear. I thought I was a goner.”
“We’re both lucky,” I laugh. “We got away without any injuries.”
His brow arches slightly, blue eyes dancing over my frame. “Yes, indeed.”
I’ve been around enough men to know when one is checking me out, and this guy is subtle, I’ll give him that, but his eyes still unmistakably flicker up and down my frame. For a second, I wonder if he likes what he sees, but then, I remember, with a horrified jolt, what I currently look like. Stringy hair. No makeup. Shabby clothes. Smelly shoes. If he’s a 10 on the scale, I’m currently a negative 1. Or maybe a negative 10, come to think of it.
But he doesn’t shudder, or roll his eyes, or walk away. Instead, the handsome man grins and says, “I feel like I’ve seen you before. Have I?”
And with a jolt, I realize he has.
Before I’m able to say it, though--before I’m able to confess that, yes, we have met before--he says, “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. I run in this park almost a lot, so I’m sure I’ve seen you here. There are a million people in Tompkins every day. Can I help you with anything?”
The utter confusion I’m experiencing morphs suddenly into understanding, and my jaw drops open but I’m unable to speak.
This gorgeous man doesn’t recognize me from when we met several years ago. Instead, he thinks I’m homeless! Hurriedly, I try to review what I must look like to a casual observer: messy, lanky hair; pale, drawn face; clothes with patches and holes in them; and most of all, I’m devouring a free sandwich generally reserved for homeless folks. Of course, a sandwich is a sandwich, but right now, there are three or four of my friends hanging out by the trash can, and they too are munching happily at PB&Js.
I look up at the gorgeous stranger and stammer.
“Um, actually …”
3
Tate
* * *
While I generally prefer to run in the morning, an afternoon jog through the park never hurts my mood. And today, my mood has been piss-poor.
That seems to be the norm lately. It’s not that work is going badly, because it isn’t. In fact, business is booming. I started my electric car company, Minerva, from the ground up in the late 90’s, and we’re currently experiencing a golden age. We’re selling more and more vehicles, and as a result, I’m treating myself to more and more expensive bourbon. My professional life couldn’t be going much better. The personal side of things, though…
“You’re such a fucking asshole!” the leggy redhead yelled last night, just before throwing an eighteenth century vase against the wall. I watched helplessly as it shattered, and then the woman stormed out of my townhouse.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have underestimated a redhead’s temper.
But she’d underestimated how busy I’ve been. Sure, I hadn’t called her for a while; yes, I was only responding to her increasingly verbose texts with one or two words. But how was I supposed to know that, despite my lack of attention, she had developed feelings for me? Where the hell did they even come from? Sure, we’d slept together and it was fine, but as far as I can recall, there was never much conversation even. It was more along the lines of, “Yes baby, more,” or “Daddy, put it there.” That kind of stuff.
Of course, I’d anticipated some pushback when I tried to break things off because I’m a rich man, but I didn’t think it was to go as spectacularly badly as it did. Damn. I liked that vase, even if I was glad to see the back of her.
Today, though, a dark cloud seems to be lingering over my head. I snapped at an employee during a meeting. I stubbed my toe on the side of my desk. I even swore at the French press when it wasn’t making my coffee quickly enough, even though the thing’s obviously an inanimate object. Clearly, I’m in worse emotional shape than I realized.