Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
And I’m a part of this because of Tripp Cassidy.
I look up, let my gaze settle on him as he’s fitting a piece of wood into a corner. He’s fully absorbed in what he’s doing, his jawline tight in concentration. He’s got red stubble along it that matches his hair. It’s warmed up in the house. He’s taken off his flannel, the muscles in his arms flexing, veins prominent in his forearms and hands. Tripp’s skin is fair, and he’s got freckles dotting the landscape of his limbs.
Why can’t I stop watching him, and why is my pulse suddenly faster? Maybe because Tripp is so…kind. I haven’t ever felt like a very kind person myself, though I wish it wasn’t true. While I’ve had plenty of people be nice to me throughout my life, it often feels like it’s because I’m a Swift, could help them with school, to get ahead, or to stay out of trouble. It’s all been because of what I can give someone and not who I am, which is likely, again, because I’m not a very good person, but Tripp doesn’t seem to need anything from me.
It’s almost like he’s been spending time with me simply because he wants to, because he enjoys it.
He looks my way, his smile automatic. Inexplicable heat washes over me, making me turn away.
That was…really fucking strange.
“What?” Tripp asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, then randomly ask, “Should I call you Cass?”
He stops what he’s doing and gives me his full attention. “Do you want to call me Cass?”
Tripp comes naturally to me, but my brothers, their partners, and everyone else around town calls him Cass. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“I’m good with Tripp or Cass. I want you to call me what you feel comfortable calling me.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue with him, to find out the specifics of what he wants so I don’t feel like I’m doing the wrong thing, but I force myself to ignore my inclination. I asked a question, and Tripp answered it. Pushing the issue will just make him get frustrated with me for my peculiarities. “Okay,” I reply, trying not to focus on how difficult it is for me to take him at his word.
We get back to work, the time flying. Tripp and I seem to get things done well as a team. We don’t have any issues, and when I try to take over like I’m known for doing, he’s patient, and I wrestle myself into relaxing.
It’s one in the afternoon when Tripp says, “We should take a lunch break.”
“I’m good to keep going.” I want to keep going, enjoy this fire of excitement that’s burning inside me. I’ve accomplished a lot of things in my life, but none of them felt like this. Law school didn’t make me soar the way this kitchen does.
“You need to eat, Rhett. What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t feed you?” His tone is light and playful like it so often is. I can’t imagine what that’s like, wish I had it in me to be as easygoing as Tripp.
When his stomach growls, breaking the silence between us, a laugh tumbles out of me. “Apparently, it’s definitely lunchtime.”
“Finally. I’ve been trying to tough it out, but you’re too hardcore for me.” He nudges me with his arm, making a spark of…something shoot up my arm. I pull back, my hand immediately going to the spot and touching it, but Tripp doesn’t act like he felt anything.
We grab our lunch containers, and then I follow Tripp, who walks right over and sits on the floor in the living room, his back against the wall. I stand there and watch him for a second before he pats the floor beside him. “No table and chairs, man. Have a seat.”
I do as he says, leaving about a foot of space between us, then wonder if I’m sitting too close and he’ll think it’s weird. But that worry is subsumed by the realization that I’m taking my lunch break on the floor of a half-built house, dirty and covered in sawdust, with space heaters and Tripp Cassidy. For the second time in just a couple of minutes, another laugh spills free.
“What’s so funny?” He pulls a sandwich from his container.
“Just thinking how strange life is. I’m used to going to work in a suit and tie every day, shmoozing at fancy restaurants with lawyers, political leaders, people my father thought were important, and…I fucking hated it. I was miserable. And now I’m sitting on a wooden floor, scratches on my hands and sawdust down my pants, while I eat a cold lunch, and…it’s incredible.”
It feels like white-water rapids of blood rush through my ears. My heart bangs against my chest as I realize what I just said.