Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
“Your friend’s bunch kinda paid for these, I’d say…,” she shrugs.
She holds them out to me, but I miss her hand somehow as she passes the bunch to me.
One final brief look from her tells me I’ve blown it again somehow. How did that happen?
She looks strong, though. Nothing wrong with that. It’s the kind of brave face someone puts on when they don’t want to show their true feelings.
Which leads me straight back to the “you’re just too old for her, James” theory I’ve had buzzing in my frontal lobe since I first set eyes on her.
I watch her move to the other end of the counter. Those three feet feel like a thousand miles.
And hopelessly, shamelessly staring at her fine ass and body from behind, I stand and look as long as I can before it’s clear I’d be making a scene if I stayed.
Again, it’s that big guy thing. A gigantic man just standing staring at people? They don’t like it. And I can tell Jasmine’s intentionally avoiding my eyes. I’m not sure why.
But I can feel her body calling… loud and clear.
She needs me, even if she doesn’t want me. I do know she needs me as much as I need her, but that’s not a decision I can make for her.
Not many twenty-year-old boys would have that thought. But age, wisdom… call it whatever you want. I still need to respect Jasmine’s decision about whether she’s interested in me.
Maybe I did just get the wrong end of the stick? Easily enough done with someone so perfect.
Seeing how bright and cheerful she is with her customers, it’s clear she’s in a league of her own—as a person, not just a florist, either.
Using the flowers to cover what I know is going to be a problem, I leave the tiny florist shop for the second time today.
It’s still raining cats and dogs, and the last place I feel like being is farther away from Jasmine. So, noticing the little coffee place right next door, I feel a little stirring of the legal professional in me. I need to grab a mug and do what I should’ve done while watching her building last night.
Get clear on how to go about this. Formulate a plan. Arrange my briefs.
How can I present a case, let alone win one with Jasmine, if I don’t even have one?
And speaking of arranging my briefs… I wonder if this place has a bathroom…
Someone needs to adjust a few things, so I don’t look like I’ve got a canoe stuffed down my pants.
I squeeze into a wooden chair by the door and notice how empty the place is. I shift more of myself under the table, trying to conceal the problem in my pants.
I replay the whole day so far over and over in my mind, absent-mindedly finding myself plucking a few petals from the bunch of flowers that I’m gripping as hard as I want to hold Jasmine.
Remembering that thing some people do. Mostly in cheesy movies or books. Surely nobody actually does it, least of all a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound slab of man.
But I can’t help it.
It’s the one thing burning my brain as well as my balls right now.
I’m not kidding when I say I need to know and fast.
She loves me. She loves me not.
She loves me. She loves me…
“You look like a man who could use this,” a friendly but cautious voice says, popping the thought bubble in my mind. A steaming mug of hot cocoa slides in front of me.
My eyes drift left, and I could swear it was my Aunt Rose for a split second, but no, just another friendly-looking old lady. I’m guessing she’s the coffee shop owner. Aunt Rose passed about ten years ago, so it’s been that long since I had the luxury of a wise, older person listen to me ramble on.
I hear caution in her voice because it just makes sense to be wary of a big, wet man in your store gripping a bunch of flowers and plucking at ’em.
“Thanks,” I murmur, scalding my mouth a little, but it’s the first thing to pass my lips since God only knows.
The old lady hovers, studying me, only speaking when I shoot her a look that asks if there’s anything else. I’m good with the cocoa if that’s what she’s worried about.
“Well?” she asks with a little grin, lifting her hands to her hips and cocking a brow. “Does she, or doesn’t she?” she asks.
“I’m not sure…,” I start to reply, suddenly stopping once I wonder how the hell she’d know what I’m thinking. How come Jasmine can’t see for herself what I’m thinking if my mind’s so easy to read.
My Aunt Rose always said the most when she hardly said anything. Whoever this old lady is, she reminds me of her so much. I feel a pang of guilt for not thinking of her more often.