Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
It’s a black T-shirt that says That’s what I do. I fix stuff. And I know things. I don’t think I’ve ever worn it, so it’s not faded.
“Lola, it’s not very dressy.”
“Why do you have to wear something dressy to go out with friends?”
She’s right. I’m riding my bike to dinner. A suit wouldn’t fit with my mode of transportation.
“The T-shirt it is.” I pull it on, and it looks pretty good with my dark jeans and boots. “Should I trim my scruff?” I rub my chin in the full-length mirror.
“I like it prickly.” She smiles.
“You do, huh?” I turn, resting my hands on the bed and nuzzling my prickly face into her neck.
She giggles and squirms. “Stop!”
I fix my hair in the mirror, shifting my gaze to Lola, my wife’s mini-me. Will the day ever come that I see Lola as Lola and not Brynn’s reflection?
“Okay. I have to get going. Be good for Nana and Pa, okay?”
“Will you be home before I go to bed?”
“Probably not. So give me a hug and kiss.”
She stands on the bed and throws herself into my arms. “Look for a pretty woman who likes kids,” she whispers.
I chuckle, lifting her off the bed and onto her feet. “You don’t give up, do ya? Good night, pumpkin.”
When I reach the main floor, Tia ignores me while reading her book in Brynn’s cream glider.
“Have a good time,” Amos says, turning down the volume on the television.
“Thanks.” I zip my jacket and grab my helmet.
I hope Maren has a thing for guys with helmet hair.
Chapter Five
Maren
I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, just before the clouds open into a downpour. There was no rain in the forecast, and the sun’s still partially shining beyond that one angry cloud.
The young hostess with a full head of beautiful black hair and a warm smile seats me by the front window so I can watch for Ozzy. After a glass of wine, the rain begins to let up, and a drenched man parks his bike by the lamppost.
“Oh god,” I whisper. It’s Ozzy.
Is he this much of a tree hugger?
As he turns, we make eye contact. His shoulders lift for a second before slinking into a heavy shrug. I hold up a finger, leave cash on the table for the wine, and step out the front door.
“I’m sorry,” he says, with water dripping down his face. His soaked jeans sag from the weight of it.
I try not to laugh, but it’s hard, so I cover my mouth and shake my head.
“I’m an idiot. I didn’t know it was going to rain.”
“No.” I drop my hand and clear my throat. “I think it was a pop-up shower. Can I take you home to change?”
“No.” He rubs his eyes and exhales. “If I go home, the date’s over. But maybe that’s for the best.”
“Why does it have to be over? Because your daughter is at home? Or are you allergic to rain?”
“Are you always a smart-ass?”
I smile. “Yes.”
He rubs his fingers over his lips to hide his smirk.
“No one’s at my place tonight. Why don’t we go there, and you can dry your clothes in my dryer?”
He squints. “How far is that?”
“A mile or so.”
He nods. “What’s the address?”
“Ozzy. I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’ll get your vehicle wet. Besides, riding might help me dry out. Except . . .” He unzips his jacket and pulls out yellow wildflowers that are droopy and a little squished. “I had them in my hand, but when it started to rain, I had to shove them into my jacket, which, in hindsight, is stupid because flowers can get wet.” He hands them to me.
“You brought me flowers?” I reach for them. “No one’s ever . . .” I pause, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Given me flowers. Except when my brother died.”
Ozzy frowns. “Are you serious?”
Giving him a sheepish grin, I nod.
After a beat, he pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket, but it’s stuck together. When he opens it, there’s nothing more than giant blotches of blue ink. “Uh, well, it was a note about the flowers. But I’ll just tell you, even though you probably already know.” He lifts his gaze. “They’re glacier lilies. After the snow melts, they are one of the first to bloom. And they are edible. But you don’t have to eat them.”
Flying gives me butterflies, the really good kind. No man has given me flowers or butterflies—until now.
“Oh!” He holds up a finger and smiles. “And I picked six for you because six is the smallest perfect number. The next perfect number is twenty-eight, but I stuck to a more manageable number and ethical harvesting.”
I’m speechless.
“So”—he clasps his hands behind his back—“I’ll follow you home?”
I shake it off, this surreal feeling. “Um, I’ll text it to you so you have it in case I don’t drive slow enough and I lose you.” I send him my address.