Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“I did,” I say, sliding the LP out of the cover. “You really didn’t have to.”
“I felt bad about last night,” she says, frowning. “What I said. And the way you left the room.”
What does she mean? I rack my brain trying to figure it out. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
She’s peering at me through those cute glasses, looking flummoxed momentarily. She takes a breath, then says, “Well, you left in such a rush. You just took off.”
I flash back to last night in her room. She hugged me for a good long time. I caught the scent of her hair. Vanilla. Then the scent of her skin—cinnamon. My brain short-circuited, then sent me back in time when she pressed her face against my chest.
Oh.
Ohhh.
Shit. She thinks I was mad at her when I hightailed it out of her room. That couldn’t be further from the truth. “That’s not why I left,” I say curtly.
“Okay,” she says, but clearly she’s still confused.
I could alleviate that confusion. Really, I could. But I’m not sure telling her I wanted to fuck her last night would fix this problem. Instead, I turn around and put the album on the turntable, taking my time setting the needle on the groove. As the first track fills the room, she heads into the kitchen to set the canvas bag on the counter.
She takes apples, pears, figs, and grapes from the canvas bag with intense concentration that’s not needed for the task, but maybe it is needed to deal with a dickish roomie.
But what am I supposed to say? You have no idea how hard it was NOT to fuck my hand to thoughts of you last night like I’ve done several nights prior? Also, your lips are incredible.
Instead, I head into the kitchen to help her. I grab the grapes. “I can wash these.”
“Thanks. I don’t know where the colander is anyway.”
I need to do better. “Let me show you where everything is.”
She smiles at me again. “You don’t mind?”
What kind of monster would I be if I did mind? And who’s treated her so poorly as to mind about something like that? “No. Of course not.”
I spend the next twenty minutes properly showing her around the kitchen, and washing the grapes. Then I give her a better tour of the living room, the guest bathroom, the gym, and the garage. I don’t show her my room, because what’s the point? She’s not going to come upstairs ever. I’m not that strong.
When we’re back in the kitchen, I say, “So that’s that.”
“Thanks again,” she says, cheery.
But it’s like she’s trying extra hard to be nice. Maybe because I was a dick. Maybe because I’m still behaving like one. I lean against the counter, and try a new tactic. “Who’s Grendel?”
Her blue eyes sparkle as she says, “The monster in Beowulf.”
Yeah, maybe it’s for the best I never dropped off that scarf with my note. There’s no way we’d work out—a guy who hates reading and a girl who’s obsessed with it. No dating app is matching the librarian with the dude with dyslexia. “Pretty sure that was in my do-not-read pile in high school,” I say, with a deliberately easygoing shrug.
“Confession: I think it’s in everyone’s do-not-read pile.”
That’s a minor relief—that she didn’t like Beowulf. Did anyone? “But I like Pennywise,” I say, then quickly add, “From the movie. Well, I don’t like him. But mad respect for his villainy.”
“Definitely.”
“Also, I don’t think you’re a monster. Like you said in your letter.” I scratch my jaw, hunting for a suitable explanation for my behavior. “Listen, last night when I left your room, it wasn’t over what you said. I was just…adjusting.”
She takes a few seconds, seeming to consider that. “I’m sorry. Am I…cramping your style, living here?”
Ah, fuck. We are not at all in sync. On anything. “No, not like that, Josie.”
With big, guileless eyes, she says, “I’ll look for another place. It shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure I can find something in a few days. I’m very resourceful.”
That is not happening. No way. Failure is not an option. “No.”
“No?”
I place more emphasis on the word: “No. You’re staying here. Your brother wanted you in a safe neighborhood. But guess what? I do too.”
She blinks, like that comment surprises her. “But I don’t want to put you out or make things weird.” Then, like an idea just landed in that big brain of hers, she says, “We can make rules for that too. Like what happens if you want to bring a girl over.”
She offers it like she’d be my matchmaker now. Maybe my wingwoman. Like she’s going to want to flop down on the couch next to me when I return from a date, rip open a bag of popcorn, and say, “So how did it go? Do you like her?”