Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
He looked all around the building until his eyes settled on me in the corner.
He grinned when he saw the large platter of cookie remains in front of me.
“You got the sampler?” he teased.
I nodded my head. “I did.”
“Which one was your favorite?” he asked, hands in his pockets and eyes on me.
I licked my fingers clean, and his eyes flared.
My grin kicked up the corner of my mouth as soon as I pulled my fingers out.
“Probably the chocolate chip,” I admitted. “But that was the only one that she had hot. So… I’m not sure if I can say that it was the real winner here. Maybe if some of the others were hot, too, they might’ve won.”
He walked up to the counter and wrapped three in a pink napkin for, whom I assumed, was Asa. He shoved them into his pocket, then came back with one on a tiny pink plate. A macadamia nut one.
“You like macadamia nuts?” I asked in surprise.
He nodded. “They’re my favorite.”
Interesting. I never would’ve envisioned him as a fancy kind of guy.
I would’ve thought chocolate chip or sugar.
Plain and simple.
I was beginning to see that Bourne was neither plain nor simple.
He was complex and exciting.
I swallowed hard and finished the last cookie remnant on my plate—a snickerdoodle.
I moaned.
“This one,” I said. “If it was hot. It’d be the one.”
“You gonna finish your chocolate milk?” he asked.
I pushed the half-empty bottle toward him. “That was my second bottle anyway. I don’t think I can physically fit anything else in my stomach right now.”
He took a small swig and went back to eating his cookie.
He ate it in three large bites.
“You need another one,” I said as I watched him brush crumbs free of his shirt.
That was when I was drawn to the tattoo on his arm.
It was a picture of a woman with a book in front of her face. Her eyes peeking over the edge of the book as she looked out.
The woman had short, flowing gray hair that floated around her in a messy halo. And purple eyes.
She had a book in front of her that only showed an illustration on it. Not a name.
“What book did you choose?” I asked curiously, tapping just to the side of the book. Not actually touching the new tattoo, but close.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I didn’t know what book I wanted to put there. Couldn’t remember the title. So, I just put something generic there. I’m sure the book will change tomorrow.”
I frowned, wondering what he meant by that.
But before I could answer, he looked at his phone and grimaced.
“What?” I asked.
“SWAT call,” he answered. “Nothing I can do about it, though, being all the way over here. Hopefully they don’t need me.”
My eyes widened slightly. “I sure hope so, seeing as you’re hours away.”
He grinned and gestured at my empty plate. “You ready?”
I nodded, my eyes once again going to his arm.
The new tattoo was beautiful, and it looked familiar somehow. But since I could only see the upper face and eyes, I couldn’t quite place it.
“Thank you for the cookies, Marnie!” I called as I gathered my trash.
She came out of the back with a wave, a stack of cookies in her hand that she walked over to the display case.
“Come back to see us!” she said. “It was very nice meeting you. You, too, Bourne!”
With that goodbye, we left.
I spotted Bourne’s big black truck almost immediately.
And then I spotted the cop at the curb writing him a ticket.
“You’re getting a ticket,” I told him.
“Actually, not yet,” he said as he glanced at the watch on his wrist. The one that rode on the inner pulse of his wrist, and not the outside. “I still have five minutes on the meter.”
We got to the truck and Bourne opened it up for me.
I jumped inside and looked over to the meter to see that he was right.
There were now four minutes left on the meter.
And the cop was glaring at Bourne as he moved around the front of the vehicle.
Bourne got in, started the truck up, and deftly pulled out into traffic without giving the cop a second glance.
“That was close,” I said.
“Guy was a wannabe,” he muttered. “Too stupid to do anything but write tickets, so the city put him out here doing just that because the fuckin’ timer on the meters tells him when to write it.”
I blinked at him.
“Tell me how you really feel,” I teased.
He shrugged. “Saw him walking all up and down the street today. Went out twice to feed the meter, and each time that I did, he’d stomp off all pissy because he didn’t get to write one. That’s not cool. That’s a bitch move.”
I snorted and fidgeted in the seat next to him, thinking hard about the words that he’d said to me that morning.