Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
She shoots me an exasperated look and rolls her eyes, one bare foot crossed over the other.
“Lupe, if I got blood out of our white sofa, ice cream on your sweater is child’s play.”
I come to stand beside her at the counter, taking her free hand and twining our fingers. I turn her hand over, frowning at an angry scar streaking across her palm like a bolt of lightning.
“You want Indian?” she asks. “Call it in to Saffron’s. Yeah, the one on the square. Order me butter chicken. I’ll pick it up on my way in. Gimme… I don’t know. Thirty minutes? Okay. No more fighting. I’ll be home soon. Yes, vision board party is still happening, but tell Inez Backstreet Boys is back on the table after this foolishness. Love you too.”
She disconnects and glances at our entwined fingers, a tentative smile on her bare lips. The lipstick is long gone. Her hair is in complete disarray. She’s outwardly discomposed, and that’s how I feel—like a storm blew through and disheveled my mind, my will, my emotions. Sex with this woman overturned my soul, spilling all the contents, and she stands here calmly talking about ice cream stains and takeout.
“I have to go.” She carefully extricates her fingers from mine. I recapture her hand and turn the palm over.
“What happened here?” I ask, tracing the long scar.
Her face clouds. She pulls her hand away and runs it through the hair curling around her shoulders. “Long story.”
“And you only have thirty minutes.” I walk over to the refrigerator to grab a beer.
“You know I have to get home to my girls.” She frowns and heads for the stairs. “You understand, right?”
I take a deep breath and a gulp of my beer before following her upstairs. By the time I reach the bedroom, she’s already wearing her underwear and bra and is on her knees looking under my bed.
“The other boot’s behind you,” I say, my arms folded over my chest, the neck of the beer bottle trapped between two fingers.
“What?” She looks over her shoulder, ass in the air, reminiscent of one of several positions I had her in.
I had her? This woman had me. Owned me between her legs. She must know that.
“If you’re looking for the other shoe, it’s behind you,” I reply, clenching my teeth tighter with every piece of clothing she puts on, with every minute that goes by, taking her closer to walking out of here like this was some kind of one-night stand—like I’m her fuck buddy, not the man who has been falling in love with her incrementally since the moment we met.
And now I’m too far gone. The intimacy we shared pushed me over the edge into something I’ve never felt before. I knew what this was, though. Soledad told me it was one night. She told me she needs to be alone right now. She didn’t lead me on, but frustration seethes under my skin as I watch her struggle with the zipper of her dress.
“Here, let me.” I step behind her to drag the zipper up the last few inches. Her hair falls in thick waves to the middle of her back, and I bury my face in the fragrant cloud of it, breathing in the scent of jasmine oil and the traces of us that still cling to her skin.
“I gotta go.” She turns to face me. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I know how it is.” Even I hear the tension in my words, but I keep my gaze on the floor when I feel her eyes on me.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks, her brows bunched into a frown. “I would stay if I could.”
“Is that true?” I meet her gaze before it skitters away again. “Because it feels like even if they weren’t fighting, even if there wasn’t a stain or pictures, or takeout, you would find some reason to run from this.”
“No.” She bends to retrieve her other boot, sits on the side of my bed, and slips it onto her bare foot, but leaves it unzipped at the ankle. “I’m not running. I’m just sticking to what we said. One time and…”
She stops, scooting on the bed closer to the nightstand and opening the drawer wider. There’s a really big box of condoms in there. I don’t want her to think I planned some kind of orgy.
“This was the only box they had,” I explain, closing the drawer quickly. “I wasn’t—”
“You’re reading All About Love?” she asks, her voice soft, her eyes trained on the drawer I slammed shut.
“Um… yeah.”
“So am I.”
“Right.” I tilt my head, frowning at her. “Why do you think I’m reading it?”
I could tell her I’ve come to understand showing interest is part of how she shows love, and that I wondered if that’s how she receives it. I could tell her everything that interests her interests me because it’s a clue to how I can reach her, how I can love her the way she deserves, but she already seems a little freaked out by the book, so I hold that back.