Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Her eyes damn near popped out. “Of course, they do. Self-pleasure, French wine and Swiss chocolate. Not all of this.” She gestured at the bucket.
I looked from her to the bucket, pausing to consider such a course of action. It seemed self-indulgent to do such things. Sure, I had a vibrator. Sure, I owned a good amount of wine and Swiss chocolate—I wasn’t completely unhinged. But I hadn’t combined all three things to deal with a crisis. I hadn’t had the luxury to deal with my problems in that kind of way. So, I'd figured out a way to turn something that always needed to be done—cleaning—into my own form of meditation.
During my contemplation over how I’d spent my life dealing with trauma, Fiona had taken the opportunity to snatch the scrubbing brush from my hands and pick up the bucket of water.
“Hey!” I protested weakly, trying to grab them back. But I was on the floor, and she was standing, and much taller than me.
“Nope,” she said, popping the ‘P.’ “You’re going to go home and engage in all of those activities that will actually make you feel better. And I swear to fuck, if you pick up any kind of cleaning implement in your house, I’ll know.” She wagged her finger at me.
“Cleaning makes me feel better,” I balked, rocking back on my heels.
“Bullshit. Now get up,” she ordered, holding her hand out to me.
I pouted, thinking of arguing with her and deciding not to. She wasn’t exactly wrong… Chocolate, wine and my vibrator did sound pretty good to me right now.
“Fine,” I conceded, grabbing her outstretched hand and letting her pull me up.
“He’s never going to come in here again,” I whined once I was on my feet.
Fiona squeezed my hand before letting me go. “Well, then he’s a fucking idiot,” she declared. “Even when you’re making a dick of yourself, you’re hot as fuck,” she informed me with a wink. “And I know for a fact that there is a man out there who will find you hot when you’re making a dick out of yourself.”
I forced a smile and didn’t argue even though I wasn’t entirely convinced.
I had a feeling that I would never see Rowan again.
It turned out that staying late at the bakery, cleaning it from top to bottom, would’ve been the safer option.
I should’ve known... The universe wasn’t exactly well-versed in giving me a break. Not that I wallowed in that. The universe had given me plenty. Or I had made the most of every single, however small, opportunity it vaguely flung in my direction.
My life was good. Great even. But that didn’t mean I was going to be the girl who could catch a break.
That was made apparent when I walked into my kitchen and my ex-fiancé was sitting there.
“What are you doing here, Nathan?” I sighed.
I wasn’t entirely surprised. He’d been calling me nonstop, not getting the message. And today was the day we had planned on getting married. Before I called off the wedding, that is.
He was the last person I wanted to deal with right now. I was still sufficiently rattled and mortified by the interaction with Rowan, still trying to convince myself that I’d imagined the interest in his gaze.
I was confused. Amped. But also exhausted. My day started at four in the morning, as it had for years. It was second nature to me now, getting up, making coffee. Stretching… if I could force myself to act like I was a little bit interested in exercise. Driving to the bakery, opening up, tying on my apron and getting to work. Mornings were my favorite. No one else was up. It was just me. Me in my element. In the place I felt safe, confident, secure.
But because of those early mornings, I was in bed by nine. Ten at the absolute latest. I could function off six hours of sleep, but I preferred a minimum of seven. I worked until the bakery closed at four p.m., then spent another hour shutting things down. It was a long day. Work I adored, but it took a lot out of me.
My evenings were mine too. When I would pour a glass of wine. Make something to eat or pick at whatever was in the fridge. I’d turn on the TV, sink into the cloudlike cushions of my sofa, let the last of the sun stream through the windows of the home I’d created. The home I loved.
The home that Nathan was polluting with his presence.
“How did you get in here?” I asked before he could answer my original question. He had been sitting on one of the barstools at my kitchen island, again, polluting one of my favorite rooms in the house. The largest because, well, it needed to be. The kitchen was my heart and soul. Where I created, where I entertained, where I found calm amongst chaos.