Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Especially prime, middle-aged kidneys like mine.”
“You don’t look middle-aged,” she says.
“No?” I arch a brow. “Could I pass for thirty-five?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Maybe even thirty-two if the room was dark and a person had a glaucoma in at least one eye.”
I laugh, enjoying her gentle roasting more than I probably should. But then, teasing and jokes are my love language. “Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome.” She sighs and taps her chin. “Now, there’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
She opens the door, revealing her soaked form. She looks like she jumped into a pool fully clothed. Her dark hair is slicked down on either side of her face and her coveralls stick to what looks like a sweater and leggings underneath. A small puddle has formed beneath her on the tile and her shoes make a squishing sound as she shifts from one foot to the other. “I have to go back to the hotel to change before we can go have fun. I accidentally jumped into the shower with all my clothes on and couldn’t find a towel after. Apparently, I have trouble thinking clearly with a moist turd on my head.”
I pull a face. “Never use that phrase again.”
Her eyes light up. “Which one? Moist turd?”
I gag and clutch a dramatic hand to my throat.
She laughs, wickedly, wonderfully. “Which one bothers you more? Moist? Or turd?”
I shudder. “Both. All. Stop. Seriously. Or you aren’t getting dry clothes at the Brookfield Place mall on our way to the ferry, courtesy of the Innkeeping with You emergency fund.”
She mimes zipping her lips, but unzips them a second later to ask, “Can I stop by the makeup counter, too? I have red lipstick in my purse, but my lashes are sad without mascara.”
“Your lashes are not sad,” I say, admiring the thick black spikes still damp around her eyes. “They’re luscious. Like a baby cow or a llama or a drag queen out for Sunday brunch in their short set of falsies.”
She giggles so hard she snorts, and I instantly know I’ll never get enough of that sound. I’m going to be thirsty for her snort-giggles until the day we go our separate ways, likely never to exchange more than likes on social media and a holiday card each December.
But I’m not going to think about that now, not when I have at least eight hours of Caroline time stretching out in front of me. I’m not the kind of man who wrecks the present by worrying about the future.
I’m the kind of man who seizes the day.
With that in mind, I tell Caroline, “Stay here. I’ll grab a towel and something dry from the prop department for you to wear while we go shopping. Then, we’ll blow this clown college.”
She claps her hands. “Amazing!”
I start to leave, but spin back to add, “And if the craft fair doesn’t keep us busy all day, I have a few other things I could show you. I have a secret New York tour I only share with the most discriminating friends and relatives.”
She cocks her head and arches a flirty brow. “Oh yeah? So, you think I’m discriminating? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Very.” I bob a shoulder and add, “I mean, aside from last night, when you let Greg pull the wool over your eyes. But no one’s perfect.”
She grins. “He didn’t pull the wool over my eyes. He’s obviously got beef with you for some reason. Maybe he just prefers women. Some animals do.”
This animal certainly does.
Especially this woman.
And for the rest of the day, she’s mine.
thirteen
. . .
Caroline
Inside the posh Waverly’s department store dressing room, I slip into a cashmere dress Leo insisted on selecting from the rack. It costs more than any single item of clothing I’ve ever owned, and I have no intention of blowing four hundred dollars on a dress, but…
Wow, is it soft.
Soooo soft.
And sexy…
The deep red wool skims my curves, enhancing without clinging. For the first time in ages, I feel classy, sophisticated. I look like a woman who calls the shots in boardrooms or at a luxury clothing brand.
Again, I’m struck by the certainty that if I never put on another Santa Claus sweater or giant red hair bow, it will be too soon.
Thankfully, before I can start feeling too guilty about that, Leo murmurs from the other side of the dressing room’s heavy curtain, “How’s it look? Show and tell, woman. You have to do a fashion show. That’s the best part of the shopping process.”
I grin, running my fingers through my hair, grateful that it’s dried in silky waves instead of frizzing the way it does in the humid New York summers. “Don’t tell me you actually enjoy shopping.”
“Love it. Well, not for me,” he amends. “Men’s clothing is boring, but I’m the go-to shopping partner for my fashionable gal pals. Not to brag, but I’ve been told I have amazing taste. Especially for a straight man.”