Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
And she was gone.
For good measure, I took another deep breath and slowly let it out, making sure I was good before I got on the road.
There was still a strange sensation in my chest.
But I did have this.
I had this.
I was revitalizing a friendship.
Just friends.
I suspected Tom would be a good friend.
And you could never have enough of those.
When I arrived, driving through it, I was not surprised by Tom’s neighborhood. The homes were on large lots. They were sprawling and attractive. It was dark, but still, I could see there was tons of greenspace built in.
And as I pulled into his drive, I saw his house was remarkably modern with a nod to mid-century, but mostly it was contemporary. Clean lines. Beautiful stone. Interesting windows. Clever uses of wood. Nuances of Japanese stylings.
It was not a feast for the eyes. In fact, a lot of people would hate its razor-sharp edges and eschewing of adornment, focusing the attention on the architecture. The welcoming expanse of windows. The depth of the entry that gave a sense that you’ve arrived somewhere important. The subtle art of the Japanese box doors that covered the bays of the garage.
But what I saw was full of personality, even wit.
I loved it.
He had no grass, his yard was xeriscaped, which further made me happy.
What threatened to return that intensity of the feeling in my chest was Tom walking out the front door in casual gray pants and a navy-blue, long-sleeved T-shirt.
His feet were bare.
I did an involuntary Kegel and quickly busied myself with grabbing the handles of the jute grocery bag I’d brought. In it was a bottle of wine, the tub of snickerdoodles Cadence made for Tom that day (my little schemer) and the envelope filled with damning things. I also snatched up the handles of my handbag.
I turned back to my door just in time for Tom to open it.
The man walked out in his bare feet to open a woman’s door.
Shit.
I peered up at him, did not quite manage to bury how fascinated I was with the lock of his dark hair that had fallen over his forehead, and my smile felt weird.
“Hey,” I greeted.
For some reason, his lips quirked.
The Kegel that caused nearly gave me an orgasm.
Friends.
Just friends.
“Hey,” he replied, bent, reached in, then pulled the handles of the jute bag out of my hold, dragged it across the space in front of me, threw them over his shoulder, then he took my hand and helped me out of my car.
He maneuvered me out of the swing of the door and closed it.
“Well, thank ye, kind sir,” I said when he looked down at me. “That little ole bag would have veritably crushed me under its big ole weight.”
He burst out laughing.
He then slung an arm around my shoulders and began to guide me up his walk.
I had no choice but to wrap my arm around his trim waist.
I tried not to process how it felt.
I still processed that it felt amazing.
When he quit laughing, he asked, “Is everything in this bag for me?”
“Yes,” I answered. “As such. I want the bag back.”
“So why the issue with me carrying it?”
“I would have liked to have given it to you.”
“Sorry, honey,” he murmured, though he was not sorry, I saw, since I was looking at him. I heard his lack of remorse as well, since obviously I was listening to him.
My snit was erased when we walked into his house.
General curb personality outside.
Tom Pierce personality inside.
At a glance, I loved it.
I didn’t get the chance to fully admire his sunken living room, wall of windows with a view to his pool that included a seating area with firepit right outside the glass panels. It was sophisticated, but warm. There were things about I wanted to inspect more closely. And I saw a ton of framed family pictures I wanted to inspect even closer.
However, a gaggle of fur was stumbling, bumbling and tumbling its way to me.
Tom let me go as I crouched down and endured the single most feeble feline mass attack in history.
I still couldn’t stop myself from letting them win, planting my ass on Tom’s tile and allowing them to crawl all over me.
“How’s it going with this brood?” I asked.
“Chloe has claimed Venus, as she would. We FaceTimed, and Matt has dibs on Boris, which is no surprise. That leaves me with Ace and Serena once they’re fully off the bottle and all sorted, and Nala goes home with Clay.”
I tilted my head back to catch his eyes.
“They’re still being bottle fed?”
“The doc thinks they’re three to four weeks. Ace, Venus and Serena are at times lapping up a gruel of wet food and formula, so they’re good. Boris and Nala are still on bottles, though they’re drinking some formula with a spoon, and they’re smart and perceptive. They’re watching their brother and sisters and interested in what’s going on at the bowls. I suspect they won’t be far behind.”