Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Watching her get close, it was coming clear why he was keen to get there.
She opened the door and looked up at him, no smile on her lips, but the dimple was rippling, there and gone and back again.
“Hey.”
“Babe.”
“You found it.”
He looked to his feet, then to her, and lifted his brows.
When he did that, the dimple definitely popped, though only for about a nanosecond, before she flicked out her hand in an odd, hilarious, adorable way and stopped barring the door.
He walked in enough she could close the door.
But that was as far as he could make it before he had to stop dead.
Because her place was the…fucking…shit.
Big, slouchy, comfortable-looking couch that unquestionably would fit two. Bed up in the loft he could see had an iron footboard and some colorful, old-fashioned quilt folded at the bottom that looked like it was made up of stitched-together rosettes with a dripping, scalloped edge. Queen bed, so it’d fit two as well, but there’d need to be cuddling. Kickass farmhouse kitchen table with curve-back chairs. Wall of windows. Sunlights. Big deck with more pots with lots of flowers, also lots of seating options. Red cabinets in the kitchen that ran along the wall opposite him.
She had possessions. Books. A surprising (that she had one at all), but impressively large CD collection. Toss pillows. Warm-looking throws. The odd piece that was either bought while making a memory, taking an adventure, or she just thought it was pretty, lying around.
But it was small and contained, like her.
It was clean, and even neat, but not exactly tidy.
There was no massive, gourmet kitchen to wow you.
Not a single thing in the place looked like it was selected on a plan of setting the space.
Alex lived, and some of that life landed here.
That was it.
He fucking loved it.
“Cheeseburger eggrolls,” she announced.
He looked down at her.
“Say again?” he asked.
“That’s what we’re having for dinner. Cheeseburger eggrolls. Made in the air fryer. And a quinoa salad. Brownies and ice cream for dessert.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“I use turkey meat, I shy away from beef. And we had steaks this week. I’ve met my quota.”
“Works for me.”
“First, the binder.”
He did a slow blink.
The binder?
She strolled across the space, and he’d been busy with her hair, and her two-toned eyes, that dimple, her auburn-tipped lashes and getting her to talk comfortably with him in that husky voice, so he’d forgotten what a great ass she had.
Shit.
How had he forgotten about that ass?
By the time he lost sight of it, she was at the kitchen table, and sure enough, she was holding up a green three-ring binder.
The spine was thick.
“Can you come here, please?” she requested.
He walked across her space.
She must have had a candle or incense burning or something, because he smelled pinyon.
That made everything even better.
Jesus.
He stopped close to her, and she dropped the binder on the table with a plonk, and when she opened it, there was another plonk, so he looked to the table.
There were tabs, with paper between. He couldn’t read them because her hand was in the way, and she was flipping.
Though, good or bad (he picked bad), she explained.
“All we need, but that’s up for discussion. You might have additional categories. Family.” She flipped a tab. “Friends and Enemies.” She flipped a tab. “Schooling.” She flipped a tab. “Work experience.” She flipped a tab. “Travel.” Another flip. “Food.” Another flip. “Entertainment, like movies, books, TV.” And another flip. “Music, because obviously, that’s its own category.” Flip. “Hobbies and Favorite Activities.” One last flip. “Miscellaneous.”
He felt her gaze so he turned his attention to her.
“Did I miss anything?” she asked.
“What the fuck is that?” he asked back.
She assumed a mystified expression that simultaneously made him want to take a picture so he wouldn’t forget how cute it was, at the same time it made him want to kiss her.
“A life binder. I have sheets”—she looked to the binder, and with trepidation, he did too, to see pages flying as she flicked them off her thumb—“and so do you. My pages are white, yours are yellow. I fill in. You fill in. We study, passing it between us. Though, if you want your own binder, I’ll make you one. And look, I’ve already started my part.”
She flipped to what he knew was the “Entertainment” tab because he saw five precise columns with shit written under them. The headers were “Books,” “Movies,” “TV,” “Other” and “Dislikes.”
There was stuff written under those headings, but he didn’t bother reading it.
He turned back to her. “Are you being serious?”
“You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“Hello, Mr. Sharp.” He looked down to the binder, reaching out a hand with fingers spread in order to use his fingertips to adjust it his way. “I’m marrying your daughter, and she enjoyed The Queen’s Gambit and found Michelle Obama’s Becoming moving and inspirational.”