Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Exactly,” I agree. “But let’s start from the top. We can call it… twenty questions, though we’ll probably need more than twenty.”
“Deal.” She sips her coffee, pausing to savor it. “I’ll go first. Lincoln Zane, what’s your favorite color?”
I chuckle. “I guess we’ll keep it easy. gray. Mostly because it reminds me of stormy clouds. Your turn—favorite color?” I don’t dare tell her it’s because it reminds me of the color of her eyes.
She presses her lips together, thinking. “Royal blue. Something about it feels regal and calming at the same time.” She arches a brow. “Next question?”
I grin, tapping my chin like I’m considering something deeply profound. “All right. What was the name of your first pet?”
Her face lights up. “Oh, that’d be Ranger. Not our Ranger, obviously,” she adds quickly, referencing our coworker. “But a mutt I found outside my apartment building when I was twelve. Dean was allergic, but we kept him anyway for a few years until we moved.”
“Good to know,” I say, storing that little fact away. “If someone asks about your childhood pet, I can say ‘Ranger, a mutt.’ That’s very married of me.”
Her laugh is soft but genuine. “Your turn. Did you play any sports in high school?”
I shift, letting out a low chuckle. “Football, briefly. I was a decent running back, but I enlisted before I could go to college. You?”
She shakes her head, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “No sports. I was more into coding with Dean or reading mystery novels.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Makes sense. Explains the hacker genes in your family.”
She pokes my arm. “I’m not the hacker—Dean was the hacker. I was just the sidekick, handing him tools and cheering him on.”
We go back and forth for a while, covering all the usual get-to-know-you material. I learn she hates pickles, loves thunderstorms, and once dyed her hair pink for a single day before freaking out and dying it back. She learns I can’t stand olives, prefer early mornings to late nights, and once ran a half marathon on a dare.
We take turns peppering each other with random questions: “What’s your biggest fear?” “If you could travel anywhere, where would it be?” “Do you have any weird habits?” Each answer feels like peeling back another layer, and there’s a strange intimacy in discovering these tiny details we’ve never talked about before.
Finally, she sets her empty coffee mug aside, tucking her feet underneath her. “Okay, new question,” she declares, eyes sparkling. “What’s your biggest guilty pleasure?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean, like, TV show, or…?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, or anything. Could be a show, a snack, a hobby.”
I think about it, trying to decide how honest to be. After a moment, I sigh. “Fine. Old Westerns. The cheesier, the better. I can quote half of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly in my sleep. Please don’t tell the guys.”
She laughs, covering her mouth. “That’s actually adorable. Lincoln, the tough ex-soldier, curled up watching Clint Eastwood. I won’t tell, promise.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling warmth spread through my chest. “Your turn.”
Her grin fades to a smaller smile. “Uh… baking competition shows. I used to watch them with my mom, before she passed. Now I watch them whenever I’m stressed. Something about dough rising and people frosting cakes is soothing.”
I nod slowly, wishing I could give her a comforting hand squeeze without crossing a line. “That’s nice. So, if anyone asks about your weird late-night TV habits, I’ll say you’re hooking up with cooking shows.”
She laughs lightly, a shadow in her eyes at the mention of her mom. “Yeah. That’s me, whipped cream fanatic.”
We cycle through more questions, leaning closer as if the conversation itself is pulling us in. The tension in the room shifts—it’s less about the mission, more about just wanting to know each other. I realize I’m enjoying this a little too much.
Her voice softens as she asks, “What’s your earliest childhood memory?”
I pause, sorting through the mental images. “Probably sitting on my mom’s lap on the front porch, eating popsicles in the summer. I remember the sticky juice running down my arms and her laughing while she tried to clean me up.”
She smiles. “That’s sweet.”
“I guess it is,” I murmur. “What about you?”
She exhales, gaze drifting toward the window. “Sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night with Dean to watch old reruns of detective shows. We’d sit there, wide-eyed, trying to guess who the culprit was before the reveal. Sometimes our parents would catch us, but they usually let us stay up. I think they liked that we did it together.”
I smile, imagining a small Isabel and Dean whispering theories at the TV. “Makes sense. You two have always been a team.” After a lull, I clear my throat. “So, from now on, we should practice how we’d actually answer these questions if someone asked about our marriage. Let’s… set a timeline. How long have we been married?”