Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Dang it.
I was blathering again.
At least I didn’t repeat the word yummy.
“Tapioca in tea?”
He looked revolted, and since that was definitely endearing, it made me smile, which made his gaze fall to my lips again. This time my stomach warmed and other places south clenched, but he quickly jerked his attention back up to my eyes.
“I know, it sounds strange.” I shrugged. “There’s a lot in this world that’s strange to us, until we give it a go. Like anything else, once we try it, sometimes it’s awesome, sometimes, not so much. Trust me, boba is awesome.”
“I’ll have coffee.”
With that, he looked beyond me to my kitchen.
I’d had a wall taken down, but if I wanted my house to remain standing, there were some supports I had to work around even if the great room I was after would never be all that great because of the strictures of space.
However, I was noticing another reaction from Sheriff Moran. As he stared at my kitchen, he seemed to have frozen again, though his expression had changed.
I didn’t know him, I couldn’t be sure, but I could swear it looked like…
Longing.
Startled, I turned to take in my kitchen.
For the full front room, I’d gone heavy with the cottage-y, cozy farmhouse vibe.
The kitchen had wood cabinets. A Belfast sink. The beams on the ceiling continued from the living room. I’d had another window cut in on the side of the house so there was lots of light. The back edges of the counters were lined with pots growing fresh herbs. Crocks and glass jars and canisters abounded (we could just say I wasn’t a minimalist—and fresh herbs made whatever you cooked taste a whole lot better).
And there was a beautiful French pottery pitcher resting dead center on the farm table that sat in the middle of the kitchen space. The pitcher was filled with the fresh-cut autumn flowers I’d picked up on my way back from getting my morning coffee at Aromacobana. Dahlias and goldenrod and hare’s tail with some fountain grass (Jenna at Mistery Flowers and Gifts was an artiste, said me).
I swung back to the sheriff, who still seemed in the thralls of that odd stupor.
“Are you okay?”
At my question, he visibly pulled himself out of whatever trance he was in and cleared his throat. That was a very masculine sound too.
Man, I had it bad for Sheriff Moran. I knew this in a way, since it didn’t escape me the many times I saw him in passing, I had a crush on him (and it didn’t escape me because that crush was huge). But having him right there in my house was showing me just how bad I had it.
“Fine,” he answered.
I bustled to the coffee maker.
“How do you take it?” I asked, opening the top of the Nespresso to drop a pod into it.
“Isn’t that coffee expensive?” he asked in return.
I glanced over my shoulder at him on another shrug. “I allow myself a few splurges.”
Like the Nespresso. And a walk to Aromacobana nearly every day. And fresh-cut flowers.
Seeing me in my environment, you wouldn’t know I didn’t have a lot. I’d learned to make it stretch. But everything around me, all that was me, had been the result of sixteen years of hard work, sacrifice, and penny-pinching.
I was good now. Comfortable, not rolling in it.
But it had been one very long row to hoe.
“Right,” he grunted, giving me the impression he approved of me allowing myself a few splurges, just as long as they were a few, as in, within my means, at the same time he really hated the fact he approved of that.
Yes, I read all of that in a one-syllable grunt.
I just didn’t know what to make of it.
“Just a little bit of cream,” he belatedly answered my question.
I nodded and grabbed a mug, then went to the fridge to get some cream.
I’d dolloped “just a little bit of cream” in his mug, and when the Nespresso started chugging, I turned back to him.
He was standing by my farmhouse table, contemplating Jenna’s flowers.
“I got those from Jenna’s,” I told him.
His head pitched up like he was surprised anyone was there and his regard returned to me.
“At Mistery Flowers and Gifts,” I went on.
“They’re pretty,” he replied, again begrudgingly, like he didn’t want to admit it.
“She has an incredible garden and greenhouse. Most of her flowers come from her own grows,” I informed him.
“Mm,” he hummed, provoking another improper physical reaction from me.
I was thinking that I shouldn’t be talking about Jenna and her greenhouse, considering he’d agreed to a cup of coffee, which meant he expected to be here for a while on whatever business he had (and yeah, I was in deep denial about part of that business, then again, I had a ton of practice putting myself in that space).