Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Chicago style, then.” Humor replaces the hooded darkness of want in his eyes. “There’s beer if you prefer?”
“Wine’s good. I’m not a big beer drinker.”
“If my little brother heard you say that, he’d have your whole life figured out.” He fetches two wineglasses and fills them. “Patton thinks a person’s drink of choice is their whole personality.”
“Better than astrology, I guess.” I laugh. “You get along pretty well with your brothers, huh?”
“They’re complete assholes, but still decent guys when they need to be. We’re closer than we used to be, I’ll admit.” He brings out toppings of all kinds—mushrooms, peppers, red onions, pepperoni, prosciutto, the works—and turns the sauce down to a simmer. “What about you, Winnie?”
“No siblings. Just me and my folks.” I don’t mention how lonely it was growing up in that big house with two control freak parents who were too busy for their daughter.
Mom had nannies from the day I was born, for heaven’s sake. But when I got older, she cut them loose. I think she was too paranoid about Dad having an affair like so many other rising stars in politics.
My childhood was a constant churn of new faces. Superficial relationships and glad-handing and smiling for Dad’s campaign ads as he climbed the political ladder.
More than anything, it was being fabulously alone and learning to cope with it.
Maybe that’s why I like Solitude so much.
I’ve been conditioned to be lonely. I just didn’t think too hard about it until now.
“I wish I had a sister, sometimes,” I say into the silence. Archer watches me intently, and I’m not sure I want him reading any of the deep melancholy thoughts drifting through my head. “You know, someone my age, or maybe a little older.”
“With two jackass brothers, I’d say you were lucky. Siblings are hard work.”
“Brothers are hard, but sisters do stuff together. They can actually bond.” Even as I say it, I know it’s wishful thinking.
Maybe I like the idea of having a sister because Lyssie is basically a sister from another mister, and I always wanted something like that.
“Have you always lived in Springfield?” he asks, shifting gears.
“I mean, yeah. I traveled around a bit. DC and Virginia, you know. Lots of trips across the country and sometimes abroad. I spent a few months in New York once while the boss hobnobbed with his old-money donors.”
I enjoyed it, too, but I don’t think I’d like settling there. It was a massive change, going from a big fish in a small pond to feeling like plankton in the ocean.
New York City eats you up and spits you out, even if you’re a United States senator. If you’re a staffer, you’re total fish food.
After a while, I hated the anonymity in the city, this huge, teeming place where it felt like no one cared. What started out as my big adventure became pure claustrophobia.
Just give me my little house somewhere with my bees, please.
Peace and quiet and cool fresh air.
If I’m lucky, a family to go along with it, and a man to come home to who’s huge and bold and kindhearted, a man like—
No.
You’re doing it again.
Winnie, you are not settling down with Archer Rory.
“My mother liked the honey,” he says, surprising me. “She tried it, actually.”
“That’s good to hear. Have you tried it yet?” I help assemble my pizza, putting way too much pepperoni on top. What can I say—I like some spice and balance has never been my thing.
“Not yet.”
“Not even on toast? Man, what are you doing with your life?” I roll my eyes and cluck my tongue at him.
With a quick sly smile, he opens the fridge and pulls out the small jar. There’s only a little purple left, but it’s beautifully strained, just as bright as I remember.
“If you want to force-feed me, I won’t stop you,” he says deadpan.
Holy crap, is he joking?
But his face is set like stone.
The image of feeding Archer Rory that purple honey hooks into my head and doesn’t let go.
…I guess maybe I could put it on a spoon and pass it over without bursting into flames.
Unless he makes a big show of licking it off.
My toes scrunch like caterpillars.
He wouldn’t dare… would he?
I know I’m being silly, thinking he’d ever want to make me imagine licking it off his hard, punishing body.
Time to put my fantasies to bed and do something less erotically charged.
“I have another thought,” I mutter, practically stuffing my head inside his giant fridge.
I find sriracha, garlic, ketchup, and soy sauce, and start mixing them together in a small bowl. Finally, I add a dab of honey from the jar.
“We’ll just give it a little drizzle, if that’s okay? Or we can set it aside as a dipping sauce for the crust,” I tell him.
“Sure we can. How did I know you’d find a way to pair that damn honey with the pizza?” Archer chuckles.