Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I set her away punitively, as though she’s the one to blame, even though we both know that’s not the case.
But my eyes home in on her mouth. It’s pink and swollen from the kiss, and I witness her top teeth dig into the plush flesh of her bottom lip.
Her brown eyes are huge as they stare up and into mine. Big and beautiful and fucking tempting me to make them fall closed again.
I want to hear the way her breath escapes her lungs on a needy gasp again. I want to feel the way her lips meld perfectly to mine. I want to dive my tongue back into her mouth and taste her.
I want to feel all of her perfect curves with my big hands.
I want to know what Norah Ellis looks like when she really comes undone. I want to know what she feels like, sounds like, when she’s too busy chasing her pleasure to run that rambling little mouth of hers.
Fuck.
It takes everything inside me not to kiss her again.
“Get out of here, Norah.” My words come out like a harsh demand, but deep down, I’m begging her to get the hell out of here so I don’t lose control.
“Bennett—”
“Leave,” I snap, effectively sending her away to her pile of bagged milk and down the sidewalk in a hurry.
A stupid kiss and even stupider reaction.
I guess, no matter how hard I try, I’m never going to grow out of being a dumbass.
16
Norah
Tuesday, August 10th
For three days, I’ve thought of nothing but the kiss.
The way it felt, the way I gave in to it so quickly despite my very complicated life, the way it ended—and how every part of all three of those is a recipe for devastation.
I don’t need some macho, grumpy man who hates me riling me up and stealing kisses in parking lots. I don’t need to throw my life into another man and another disaster when I’ve not fully escaped the last. I don’t need to be feeling the things I’m feeling or wondering how to decode Bennett Bishop’s mystery.
I need to focus on me. I need a job. I need a purpose. And I need all those things pronto.
As such, begging Josie to have the morning off today so I could pursue other employment seemed like the most logical choice, and now, as I drive toward a random address outside of town in Josie’s old Civic I got started by some miracle, I’m starting to feel like I can breathe.
An artist’s assistant.
It’s the perfect outlet for my creativity and design, and much better than bagging groceries at Earl’s or shearing sheep for the supposedly hot Farmer Tad, as Josie refers to him, or even breaking all of my sister’s hard-earned equipment at CAFFEINE.
And I think Josie is coming to that realization too. The gusto she used to agree to my morning off to job hunt—even though she had a meeting with Eileen Martin scheduled about running coupons in the paper that meant she wouldn’t be working either—proves it.
Dressed in the only pair of business casual clothes I have with me—all from Lillian, of course—I drive along a winding road that Google Maps is confident leads to 33 Maple Avenue.
It’s not long before I spot a mailbox holding court in front of a gravel driveway that verifies the right address. I take a right and head down the curvy path until the real-life vision of a large barn stares back at me through the windshield. In the distance, a big white house sits up on a hill.
The brakes squeal like rusted metal and the tires crunch over the gravel as I come to a stop at the edge of the driveway.
I cut the engine and start to look around at my surroundings.
Open grass fields highlighted by lush forest and a white barn with two large red doors.
It’s No-Man’s-Land—the opposite of New York City. As a self-proclaimed fancy girl who’s used to urban hustle and bustle, I can’t believe how good it feels.
I check my hair and makeup one last time in the visor mirror and step out of the driver’s side door at 11:58 a.m., two minutes to spare before the interview starts. I’m so proud of myself for managing my time well enough—even the extra fifteen minutes it took to get the Civic running—not to be late.
Now, all I need to do is nail this interview, and I’ll be well on my way.
New life, here I come.
The walk to the barn is a real test on my heels, but I manage to trudge through the grass without breaking a stiletto or falling on my face. Maybe business casual wasn’t the way to go, but on the off chance the person interviewing me has, I don’t know, seen me in the paper or happens to be a member of the volunteer fire department, I wanted to bolster my chances of convincing them I’m a professional. I look around for a bell or something to announce my arrival by the red doors, but with nothing in sight, I settle for knocking on the weather-roughened entrance.