Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“I like it there,” he says. “Leave it.”
I get into bed with him, and he pulls me over to him. “I love you,” he says, and I look up at him. This man has held my hand and helped me love without even knowing.
“I love you, too.” I smile at him, and for the second time in my life, I sleep more peacefully than ever.
Chapter 32
Mark
I walk into the rink two days later with my bag in my hand. I just dropped Vivienne and Elsa off at her house, and I already miss her. Yesterday when I came to practice, she stayed at my place, and when I got home, she was there on the couch with her laptop, and it just felt good.
I walk into the room and see that most of the guys are there. “Hey,” I say to them, and Evan looks up at me while he’s reading something on his phone.
“I can’t fucking believe this,” Evan says, slapping his leg. “She finally fell in love.”
“Who did?” I ask him, and he looks up.
“Life of a Serial Dater,” Evan says, and I look at him confused. “It’s a blog about this woman who lives in New York or at least that is what she says. Candace came across her blog a couple of years ago, and from time to time, she sends me some of her posts. This chick,” he says while I sit down. “She’s out of her mind. Dude bought her a fish, and she about lost her shit.”
My head snaps up when he says that. “What?” I ask him, and he laughs.
“She started dating this guy or banging him,” he says. “She never really stays with anyone longer than one night, but this guy, he takes her out to this romantic date and then sent her a fish.” I swallow, and I try not to look shocked. “She lost it.”
“What is this blog called?” I ask him, taking out my phone.
“Life of a Serial Dater,” he tells me, and I google it. But I don’t have a chance to read anything else because Oliver comes in, and we get on the bus. I don’t have a chance to read it until I finally get into my room. I pull up her latest post.
Stick a fork in this turkey, the goose is cooked.
I never thought this would happen, never thought I would find someone who I wanted to wake up to every single day, but people, I did.
I smile and then scroll down to the one under it.
My vagina is officially broken or cursed.
I laugh but continue reading.
I just spent the last ten hours trying to make myself have the happy ending, and you know what I got? Carpal tunnel.
I swipe up.
I don’t care what anyone says, size does really matter.
I scroll and find another one.
Can you really miss someone if you haven’t been together long? I knew him less than a month, yet I look for him wherever I go. I actually go out of my way to walk by his house with a chance to see him. Is this what women actually do? The answer apparently is yes.
I smile and then go to the next one.
He sent me a gift. I know what it sounds like—woohoo he sent me a gift. But it is more than that. He sent me Jane Austen books. The same books I spent five years reading weekly. It’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten, but how did he know?
It’s been seven days since I last saw him, and it feels like just yesterday. I don’t understand what this is or how to make it stop. How long can this go on?
I don’t know why I’m so happy, but the next one kills me.
.How can he think I would be in a relationship? How did he not know that I don’t do relationships, and in this day and age, how can one refuse to have sex with a woman who is willing and able? I’m a serial dater, for fuck’s sake.
I’m about to read the next one when my phone rings with FaceTime, and I see it’s Vivienne.
“Hello,” I say when it finally connects, and her face comes into view. She has her hair piled on her head, and she’s wearing the same shirt she wore home, which is mine.
“Hey,” she says, smiling. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I tell her. “Just reading something I found online. What are you doing?”
“I am just going to order myself something to eat, and I thought I would check in,” she says softly. “When are you coming back?”
“We leave here tomorrow night after the game, so probably around two or three in the morning,” I tell her. “Where are you going to be?”
“Probably here.” She looks at the camera. “Do you want to come here?”