Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I can’t stand the silence. “Why’d you lie for me?”
“Hmm? What do you mean?”
“You told them you actually ordered a well-done steak.”
He shrugs. “Guess I forgot how I ordered my steak.”
“Bullshit. You lied for me.”
“Did I?”
“And you said I grabbed that habanero sauce by mistake. You know damned well I did that on purpose.”
“So you wanted to broaden my taste buds,” he suggests. “That a crime?”
I stop and turn on him again. “Is this some kinda trick?” It’s in front of Patsy’s Pastries & Pies I’ve got him, and when I advance on him, he backs up. “This your way of gettin’ back at me? Chasin’ me out of Trey’s, puppy-doggin’ me around town acting all nice to me suddenly? Is that it?” I poke my finger into his chest. He keeps backing away—and it’s frustrating beyond words how unaffected he looks by my temper, even the manner in which he’s backing away, with a stoic expression, totally calm, unafraid, as if his act of backing away is done in politeness, giving me room to have it out. “What’s next in your scheme, huh? Once you got me lulled into a false sense of security? Is that when you strike? Get your big revenge?” I jab my finger into his chest again. I would swear that Bridger’s holding back laughter if his face wasn’t so damned blank. “You’re not gonna get one over on me.”
His back is against the banister of the outdoor seating area of Patsy’s, a step away from casually leaning against it, elbows up on the smooth wooden railing behind him.
He looks so fucking smug right now. So infuriatingly calm.
I don’t know how this guy can disarm me so fast by pulling me out of the street from the path of a truck, making my heart race, bringing my face in front of his, and drawing all of my breath out of my lungs like I’m staring at goddamned art in a museum—then make me mad so fast the next second.
He tilts his head, eyeing me. “What’re you doing tomorrow?”
I squint at him. That sure didn’t answer any of my questions. “Why?”
“Busy with one of your around-the-town odd jobs?”
“Why are you asking? Why would I tell you?”
“Those’re two different questions. Which one would you like me to answer?” Now it’s Bridger who’s slowly coming towards me as I back up. “Why am I asking? Well, because I’m free tomorrow and wanted to see if you’d like to hang out. Why would you tell me? Because I think some part of you deep, deep, deep down … is curious if I’m really the asshole you thought I was.”
“Once an asshole, always an—an asshole,” I stammer.
“Is that your running theory for why everyone in town looks down on you?” he asks. “Because everyone’s got an idea about you and no one’s opinion ever changes?”
“The fuck?”
Suddenly it’s me with my back against the big Patsy’s sign by the road, the one with all the specials listed. Not that I can see any of them, because my view is nothing but Bridger in front of me—a brick wall of confidence, cocky smirk, and his assertive blue eyes.
“Well, I don’t believe that,” he tells me. “I think someone can prove to be more than they seemed in their first impression.”
“This is a really … really longwinded …” I hate how close he’s standing to me. “… and roundabout way to … t-to apologize.”
He comes even closer somehow. “Is that what you think this is? Is that what you want? An apology?”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Why don’t I believe that?” He lets out a breath as he looks me over. “I’m not trying to take down any of your walls. I have no strategy. I just …” His gaze drifts down to my lips in thought, then snap back to my eyes. “… want to get to know you better. The real you. The Anthony who fell asleep on my arm in the church … the real Anthony.”
The real Anthony? Who the shit is that?
“I am the—This is the … the real …”
“How about this …” He shifts his weight and tilts his head the other way. “Let’s hang out tomorrow. You pick the time and place. Pete and Cody have their own stuff to figure out, and I don’t want to be in the way of that, so I’m free all day. That is … if you don’t have to put on that big hairy costume and dance for kids in front of that burger joint again. How do you see out of it, by the way?” he asks with a sly smile. Is that a dimple popping out of his cheek? “Are there holes in the nostrils or something?”
“I … There’s … I’m not …” I slip out from between the sign and the smoldering look on his face right now. My heart is trying to fly out of my ears for some reason. “I’m busy tomorrow.”