Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Duke: I already told you, I’m bored—and you can’t rat me out to him. That’s part of our deal.
Posey: We don’t have a deal—you refuse to negotiate any roommate terms, so…you’re on your own, buster.
Duke: I can’t twiddle my thumbs for two weeks. I’ll lose my mind!
Posey: You’ve been here TWO DAYS. Calm down, you’re SO dramatic.
Duke: Who’s the other dude you swiped on?
Posey: Oh, here you go, changing the subject again.
Duke: I was bored with the subject of being bored.
Posey: LOL
Duke: So who’s the other dude you swiped on?
Posey: Some guy, it doesn’t matter.
Duke: Has he sent you a message yet? Have you started talking?
Posey: No, not yet.
Duke: You gonna send him one first?
Posey: Maybe—we’ll see.
Posey: You’re so nosy.
Duke: Why don’t you send HIM the first message?
Posey: I don’t know. I just haven’t…
Duke: You women need to learn to be more aggressive.
Posey: I’m PLENTY aggressive, thankyouverymuch.
Duke: You yell a lot—not sure I’d call that aggressive…
Posey: I DO NOT YELL A LOT.
Duke: See? You’re doin’ it now!
Posey: Did you know you even text with a Southern accent? I find that fascinating.
Duke: Do I? I hadn’t noticed. Guess I’m used to it.
Posey: Yeah, you’re texting in an accent. LOL
We message one another until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, until I fall asleep with my phone in my hand atop the blankets, realizing I passed out when the sun blinds me bright and early in the morning.
I don’t mention our conversation on the dating app when we’re in the kitchen eating breakfast.
He doesn’t mention it, either.
7
duke
I can’t get into this book.
It’s not my usual genre, but from all the books Posey had on the bookshelf in the front room downstairs, it’s the one that sounded most interesting.
An Affair Most Wicked.
Okay.
I can maybe get into this.
Apparently, it’s about some chick from America who goes to London in hopes of finding a husband, but the dude she meets there is a total dick.
I’m hoping one of his family members—preferably his hateful stepsister—tries to murder her in the process, but I can’t get past the first chapter to find out.
The hammock sways when I shift my weight. The screwed-in hooks didn’t work in the trees, so I moved it to the porch, and briefly—ever so briefly—I wonder what Posey will say when she sees the thing attached to the porch and not the tree.
Too late now.
Couldn’t get the damn screws to stay screwed. They kept fallin’ out. The tree trunk must have been too alive or something.
I adjust the brim of my baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes, wondering where she’s gone off to. Thinking about the dating app we were chatting on, smiling at her goofy responses.
Posey on a dating app.
Who would have thunk it.
The last person I thought I’d see when I made an account and started swiping last night. She was far more interesting than the four other women I began conversations with, three of them initiating the first contact:
Hi.
Hey.
How’s it going?
Seriously, we’re doing one-worded greetings now to get conversations started? Yeah—okay. How about no, thanks.
And they say men are bad…
The only one who didn’t bore me to tears was Posey, who kept me chatting until, well—I reckon she fell asleep on me once it got late. I know I was up past my bedtime (usually nine), but I wouldn’t actually know because she never came out of her room after we started chatting, not even to pee, not to brush her teeth. Nothin’.
Mum was the word this morning at the breakfast table as if the whole thing hadn’t even happened.
Fine.
Have it your way, darlin’.
Five eggs, a handful of spinach, red pepper, four turkey sausage links cut into pieces, mushrooms, olives—cooked into an omelet and topped with feta cheese.
I pat my stomach.
It was a damn good morning.
Almost time for lunch, though, or at least a pre-lunch snack, eh?
Ugh, too lazy.
I feel like I’ve gotten lazier over the past three days with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and fuck around on the internet, which doesn’t interest me in the least. I mean, how many home gadgets can a man order online for his home that won’t be his home for long?
I’m moving—did I actually need a ladder that adjusts to three different heights? No. Did I need a weighted blanket? Also no.
Did I need that hand-held blender for easy on-the-go smoothies? Unequivocally not.
As for reading material, Posey hasn’t got any magazines for me to thumb through, but I suppose I could ask her to grab some at the store or Deliver Dash them or some shit.
I already arranged the garage; I wonder what else I can do.
My phone dings.
I raise it to my good eye. It’s my younger brother, and his timing couldn’t be any better.
Dallas: Sup
Me: Not much, still in captivity.
Dallas: Where’s it at again?