Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Hey, Ryan,” chirped twenty-something Frannie Sawyer, the owners’ youngest daughter, from behind the reception desk. “How’s it going?”
With barely a nod at her, and possibly a grunt, I headed through the door behind the desk down the back hall. Mack’s office was the last one on the left.
“Yeah?” I barked from the doorway. I was hot and dirty and tired, and didn’t feel like trading confidences today.
Mack didn’t give a fuck.
“Come in here and sit.”
I went into the room, but instead of sitting, I stood across the desk from him between two chairs.
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a look. “Take a seat, Woods.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“I said sit, asshole. Don’t give me any shit.”
I glared at him for a second, but I perched on the edge of a chair, back stiff, knees apart, fists resting on my thighs.
“DeSantis said you seemed out of sorts today.”
Grunt.
“I believe pissed off at the world was his take. Still bothered about that girl?”
“I guess.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you ask her out?”
“No.” I paused, then gave in. “I slept with her.”
Mack grinned. “You’re so predictable.”
“Fuck off.”
“So how was it?”
“Good.”
“Just good?”
“Too good.”
He nodded. “Was this the first woman since your ex?”
“No, but this was the first one that actually meant something.”
“And that’s the problem?”
I scratched my jaw. “Yeah.”
Mack picked up a stress ball on his desk and played around with it. “You gonna see her again?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
“She’s leaving tomorrow.”
“So take her to dinner tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what people do, Woods. Even guys like us. Especially guys like us. They come home and do normal shit in an attempt to appear normal, if not actually feel normal.”
“Maybe I don’t want to feel normal. Maybe I don’t want to feel anything.”
“Maybe you’re just scared of what would happen if you did.”
I shook my head. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
He gave me another grin. “So I’ve heard.”
When I pulled into my driveway an hour later, I saw Stella loading something into the trunk of her car. Was she leaving?
I parked my bike in the garage, took off my helmet, and ran a hand through my hair. I imagined her standing out there, wondering what my next move would be. She’d clearly seen me pull in but hadn’t lifted a hand to wave or even smiled in my direction.
Because she’s upset with you, dipshit. She thinks she doesn’t matter.
I had a choice. I could let her go on thinking that. Would it really be so bad? She’d go her way, I’d go mine, and we’d leave last night behind. Call it a fun mistake, call it a one night stand, whatever. But let it go.
Or … I could go over there and talk to her. Apologize again for being difficult. Ask her to dinner. Try to be normal, whatever the fuck that meant.
Torn between retreating behind the safety of four walls and giving in to the urge to be with her again, I began walking up the driveway toward my house. When I reached the walkway to the back door, though, I didn’t take it. Instead, I walked around to the front to see if she was still there.
She wasn’t—and that’s when I really panicked.
I hated the thought that I’d never see her again, that she’d leave thinking I was a dickhead who’d used her for sex. And it’s not like she was asking anything of me. Just a little time. I could give her that, couldn’t I? One more night? How dangerous could that be?
Taking a deep breath, I walked up the porch steps and knocked on the door. I saw her through the pane and my stomach muscles tightened. She was so fucking pretty.
But damn, she was pissed. The look on her face as she opened the door said WE ARE NOT AMUSED and I could practically feel the icy air surrounding her.
“Yes?” she said without opening the screen door.
“Can I come in? Or can you come out?”
She shrugged. “What’s the point?”
“I want to talk to you.”
Sighing, she glanced over her shoulder. “Grams? I’ll be out on the porch for a minute.”
“Okay, dear!” I heard Mrs. Gardner reply. “Shall I make you a cocktail?”
“No, that’s okay.” Stella pushed open the screen door, the hinges groaning.
“I’ll run home and grab some WD-40 for that,” I said.
She crossed her arms. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Now that I was standing here, I wasn’t sure what to say. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”
I hurried down the steps and jogged back to my garage, where I grabbed the can of lubricant off a shelf. I was a little worried she wouldn’t be there when I returned, but she was—sitting on the swing at the far end of the porch. Arms still crossed. Expression still cool. She was all buttoned up again, wearing a collared shirt beneath a camel-colored cardigan with jeans. But her feet were bare, making her seem a little vulnerable.