Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
The social worker’s words ring in my ears again, and I force myself to push them back. There’s a reason that I was in the boys’ home growing up. Didn’t matter how many times I got out, I always had to go back.
Gwen opens her mouth as if there’s something she wants to say then snaps it closed again, probably thinking better of it.
I hate when she does that. I hate whoever taught her that no one is interested in what she has to say. “Go ahead and spit it out.”
She shakes her head. “I have no filter.”
“Don’t care too much for people with ‘em. You can’t trust a person who won’t say what’s on their mind.” There’s a reason I got passed over for promotions. I wasn’t willing to say what people wanted to hear just so I could get a head pat and an “atta boy”.
She licks her lips with no idea how sexy I find the simple gesture. For a romance writer, she seems innocent and untouched. The thought has my cock hardening even more. “Well, it’s just…I started thinking…you don’t have an arm and you don’t have a family and it made me worry that maybe you lost them in like some horrible accident and I poked at wounds that I shouldn’t have. I told you. I have no filter and—”
“No reason for apologies,” I mutter as I flip the steak. “I was a foster kid. Never knew my family. Never adopted. Lost my arm in the service. Any other questions?”
Her gaze softens, filling with sadness. Fuck, I don’t want her feeling sorry for me. The last thing I deserve is pity. I’ve made shit choices my whole life. “How do you like your steak?”
She blinks. “Blade…”
“You look like a medium rare kind of girl.”
She finally nods, seeming to accept that there are things I don’t want to talk about. “You read me right, sailor.”
I frown, and she gestures to my stump. I have an above elbow amputation, but some of the tattoos are still there among the scars.
“The anchor is a dead giveaway.”
We’re silent for a few more minutes before she smiles at the dog bowls in the corner. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“I don’t have a dog,” I answer, thinking of the white and tan Jack Russell Terrier that sniffs around every so often. Don’t even know the little guy’s name. Poor fella hasn’t been loved well.
“So then you just like putting dog food out?” She laughs. It’s a soft, tinkling sound that fills my chest with a funny feeling. I want to hear the sound of her laughter every day for the rest of my life. It’s not something I’ll get, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it.
“There’s a stray that wanders through here sometimes.” If there’s one thing I remember in my life, it’s the feeling of being a stray. The stinging knowledge that I didn’t belong to anyone. “I leave food out for him.”
“You could adopt him,” she says.
I can’t explain that I’m not the type of guy that does the whole domestic scene. There’s a reason I don’t have a wife, two kids, and the truck with toddler seats. I’m not family material. Never have been. Never will be.
Instead of focusing on the life that will never be mine, I pull the steak off the grill and plate it. It’s large enough for two. I nod to the cabinet by the grill, and she pulls out the dishes. I grab the waters from the mini fridge.
We settle at the table, and she gives me a warm smile. It strikes me then that she’s easy to please, so hopeful to be loved. The realization has me feeling like an asshole for not telling her. It’s on the tip of my tongue to confess my true identity.
I stick my fork in my steak and stabilize it with my stump, using my other hand to grip the knife and cut my food. I’ve done this so many times that I don’t have to think about it anymore.
“Did you lose it a long time ago?” She asks.
“Three years back,” I answer. “Truth is, I forget about only having one arm most days. When it first happened, it was all I could think about. Now it’s just a part of my life. I don’t register it most of the time, except when I’m trying to do things like open a pickle jar or cut steak.”
She nods, and I can sense all the questions she has. People are curious when you’re different. It’s something I had to come to terms with after I lost my arm. “I don’t mind talking about it.”
“Do you have a prosthetic? Wouldn’t that make things easier?”
“I know guys that have them, but I didn’t like it. It just felt bulky and unnatural to me. Kind of depends on the person, I guess.”