Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
The kiss.
The almost-kiss that had never happened but could have. Rip and I didn’t say anything to each other, and when we reached the top of the stairs, where the almost-kiss had happened, he went left and I went right. Five minutes later I was coming back down the same hallway wearing jeans and a T-shirt along with combat boots, and he approached from the opposite direction, somehow looking even better than Banks in a similar T-shirt and jeans.
“After you.” He held out his hand toward the stairs, his throat moving in a slow swallow as he eyed my mouth for two seconds before clearing his throat and looking away.
I defaulted to teasing because I wasn’t sure how to handle something of this magnitude.
“Be honest, you just don’t want me to trip you on the way down,” I teased.
“Figured that was an actual possibility.” His smile was back, but this time it was softer, different. The temptation to open my big mouth and demand he give me answers was strong, almost as strong as every homicidal tendency I’d had since moving in with him.
“You know you don’t have to come,” I said quickly to gauge his reaction. At this point I’d take a slight flinch on his part, an eyebrow raise, any sort of hesitation or clue that I wasn’t having a mental breakdown earlier while he was simply trying to grab an eyelash from my cheek or whisper hateful things across my lips. “Especially if you’re going to sit there being grumpy the entire time.”
He rolled his eyes, and just like that we were back in default mode, kiss ignored. “Me, grumpy?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
We reached the bottom of the stairs. The air felt tense between us, heavy even. Banks was rummaging through the semiempty fridge. “Do you guys really not have soda in here? Beer?”
“Get out of there.” Rip sighed, then cleared his throat like he was uncomfortable. Or regretting our near-kiss. Probably that. Definitely that. “We’re ready.”
“Good. I was really looking forward to being the third wheel today.” Banks pulled his head out of the fridge and shut it. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Rip answered before I could. “I’ll drive.”
The drive turned out to be twenty minutes of tension during which Banks complimented me every few minutes while Rip swerved as if dodging squirrels and trying out for NASCAR.
Once in the theater, before I could even sit down, Rip took the seat on my left and Banks settled in on my right. The movie was two hours of romantic comedy about two men fighting over one woman.
And there I sat.
Wondering.
Wishing.
Battling my own feelings over the fact that I was getting the very strong sense that Banks actually liked me, and yet the guy I couldn’t stop pining over was on my other side wearing a perpetual frown.
Why?
Why did it have to be Rip, out of all people in this universe?
It was equal parts wanting to launch myself at him and wanting to strangle him and I hated it. I’d always wondered if it was because he didn’t feel the same way, but emotional overload or not, he’d almost kissed me in that closet.
And not just that, he did things, small things that I noticed that nobody else seemed to. With all his grumpy tendencies, he always opened doors for people. He tipped double what he should even when buying his boring-ass coffee, and he loved the kids—truly loved them, didn’t just pretend to love them, then take them to Target so they told everyone how awesome he was for buying them toys.
He spent time.
That was what got me.
Time had always been my love language, the one thing that spoke to me on a spiritual level, so while I wanted to chase him around the kitchen, the fact that he put down his phone when the kids were talking to him—when anyone was talking to him—or that he read with them every night or sat down for dinner and was actually present, asking everyone, myself included, what they’d done that day?
It was a dream.
A miracle, really.
He cared. He actually cared. And after a lifetime of disastrous dates where guys would be on Tinder while sitting across from me during dinner or, worse, asking about my ten-year plan—he never did that. Sure he made fun of my job, and he drove me crazy, but when he was talking to me, he was present. He really listened.
And sure, Rip was also a jackass.
A pain in my ass.
But he was a rare male—one whom I stupidly compared every guy to.
Banks included.
As if on cue, Banks’s elbow nudged mine before he turned and winked at me. The guy was way too good looking, it wasn’t fair, and I wished in that moment I could like someone like Banks.
Instead it was grumpy butt on my left currently holding all available space in my heart.