Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
It’s on the tip of my tongue. I’m just waiting for the right moment. I’ve been romancing her slowly so I wouldn’t scare her away. So I wouldn’t lose her.
And maybe, just maybe, she’s finally ready to hear that I love her.
But for tonight, I have a game to win. I shake off the thoughts of the woman of my dreams as I near the doors.
It’s early in the afternoon the next day, and I’m in the deadlifts zone at Beckett’s gym, when he hops off the elliptical and strides over, motioning for me to take out my AirPods. I set down the weights and turn off the music. “What’s up?”
We already lifted together earlier. I’m just doing extra sets now.
“When are you going to, you know, tell my sister you’re madly in love with her?”
I blink, stepping back. He’s more direct than I’d expected. I’m not entirely sure what to say to him about Maeve. I guess I figured I’d be risking our friendship if I ever did anything about the way I felt, but I also never truly thought he’d have an issue with it. That’s just not his style. He trusts me. “How long have you known?” I finally say.
“Dude, you’ve had it bad for her for years.”
Okay. So before I did. Great.
“Now’s your chance. Figure it out. Treat her well. And don’t forget about me. Got it?”
I swallow. Nod. “I won’t. And thanks,” I say, wondering if it’s as obvious to the world as it is to him.
Or, more importantly, to her.
About a week later, we’re getting ready for Vivian’s dinner, and Maeve’s twisting her hair into a clip while Ruby Rooster sits at her feet, thumping her tail as she watches Maeve get dressed.
I understand this dog so much.
Maeve checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I notice it again—the twist of her wrists.
My brow furrows. “You okay?”
“Totally,” she says with a bright smile, but I can’t take my eyes off her wrist as she grabs the ibuprofen. She tosses back three pills this time. I count.
“You’re not okay,” I say, sharper than I’d intended.
“I am,” she insists, her smile dimming a little. “They’re just a little sore. Like I said, it’s normal. That’s why I do the stretches.”
I draw a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “How is that normal?”
“I work with my hands, Asher,” she says, then looks me up and down. “Don’t you ever get sore?”
All the time. But I’m an athlete. It’s literally part of the job, and I fucking deal with it. I handle it. “Yes, but it’s not the same.”
“How is it not the same?” she counters, already leaving the bathroom and sweeping through the bedroom where she grabs her bag.
Ruby Rooster trots after her, and Maeve coos at the dog, scratching her chin.
She stops and gives me a thoughtful look, then sets a hand on my chest. “Asher, it is. You work with your body. So do I. It happens.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words stick in my throat. I can handle it when it happens to me, but what if it gets worse for you? What if you can’t heal quickly? Your hands are your livelihood.
“We could look into it,” I suggest, a knot in my chest tightening.
She tugs me closer. “Let’s just go to dinner. Seeing my aunt is stressful enough.”
I inhale, trying to just focus on the night ahead. When the dog rubs her head against me, the tightness loosens for a minute, and I lean down to give Ruby Rooster a kiss on the head, catching a whiff of something floral. “Why does the dog smell so…fancy?”
Maeve grins, then says offhand, “Oh, that’s paw-fume.”
I blink. “Paw-fume? Did you just say paw-fume? What the hell is that?”
She nods seriously. “Yes, I got it at the pet supply store. It’s cruelty-free, and it makes her smell so pretty.” She bends to the pup, cupping her snout. “Such a pretty girl. And you love your paw-fume, don’t you?” Maeve asks, stroking the dog’s face.
I can’t help it—I start laughing. Only Maeve would get something like paw-fume. It’s so her—a little quirky, a little over-the-top, but absolutely charming. And in that moment, I know. Tonight. I’ll tell her tonight that I am absolutely, wildly in love with her. How could I not when everything she does melts my heart?
We say goodbye to the dog, but as we drive to the restaurant, I can’t stop thinking about her wrists. I should do something to help her. I should fix this.
At the restaurant, I slip off to the men’s room to wash my hands—and to Google wrist pain for artists. Tendonitis. That’s it. Could be tendonitis. Wrist braces…splints…strengthening exercises. I’ll order her some wrist braces tonight and find better exercises. I’ll look up more later. I can fix this.