Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
My phone buzzes. I almost drop it in my scramble to read the message when I see it’s from Jack.
“Can’t stop thinking about you. When can I see you again, sweetheart?”
The word hits like a punch and a caress all at once. I hold the phone to my chest, heart hammering. There’s nothing in the world I want more than to be ruined by him again.
I type back: “Maybe next week?”
He responds: “No. Too late. I want you.”
I text: “When then?”
“Tomorrow. I need to see you tomorrow.”
I love how he’s so demanding, and thumbs up his reply before logging off. OMG, I have a powerful alpha male circling me, and I love it.
I clutch my phone to my chest, feeling stupidly giddy, and for a while, I don’t move. I just lie there, humming with anticipation, replaying every moment in the woods until I fall asleep… dreaming of this man and the next time we’ll be together.
5
CHAPTER 5 – CONFIDING IN A FRIEND
Eliza
It’s not even noon and I’ve already changed outfits three times—technically four, if you count the ten-minute period where I convinced myself “ironic soccer shorts” was a power move for Monet Bistro. Ultimately, I go with a soft blue dress that hugs my curves, paired with a short cardigan and ballet flats. After all, I’m meeting Tara for coffee, so it’s no big deal. My friend’s not going to care if I arrive wearing a garbage bag - all she wants are the juicy deets.
Downtown St. Cloud is brisk today, that dry northern wind that turns every walk into a time trial. I spot Monet Bistro from a block away, sun blazing off the huge windows. The place looks like it was designed by a Pinterest board on Adderall—exposed concrete floors, live-edge tables, pendant lights that dangle like over-caffeinated fruit. There’s a wall of succulents and a chalkboard menu so aggressively cute that I want to lick it just to ruin the aesthetic.
I’m five minutes early, but Tara’s already staked out a corner table by the window, her phone cradled in one hand and her other arm draped over the back of her chair. Her look is a calculated “devil-may-care” that actually screams “I spent an hour on my brows.” But she looks good. Her long blonde hair is tied in a loose braid, and she’s wearing a flannel shirt that somehow looks hip and not “country farmer.” My bud spots me, does the signature Tara double eyebrow-raise, and gestures me over. There are already two iced teas sweating on the table, and I can see she’s ordered the kale caesar with extra chicken—her usual.
I drop into the seat opposite and take a sip of my tea, which is perfect: icy, sweet, and just slightly lemony.
“You look like someone who just had sex dreams,” Tara says by way of greeting.
I almost snort out my lemonade. “Plot twist: you’re right.”
She grins, but her eyes are sharp, scanning my face for clues. “You look hot,” she concedes, “and I love the hair. If you were going for Catholic schoolgirl, you missed by about a decade, but ten out of ten for effort.”
“I’m trying to class it up,” I protest, smoothing my skirt with a nervous hand. “I have an important meeting later.”
Tara sips her tea, watching me over the rim like a shark considering whether to breach. “Is this a code for ‘I have a date with a war criminal’ or ‘I have a date with my dad’s hot friend’?”
I blink. “You make it sound so—”
“—so accurate?” she cuts in. “Eliza, just tell me: are you seeing the pilot again?”
I smile, flushing bright red. “Yes. Tonight,” I say in a soft voice. “And I can’t wait.”
Tara giggles and leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping a notch. “Tell me everything. Start at the beginning and don’t leave out the depraved parts because those are the best bits.”
I launch in, picking at the mint leaves in my tea as I recap the whole bizarre evolution from “my dad’s friend whom I was only tangentially aware of” to “my dad’s friend is actively making me reconsider everything about my life.” I leave nothing out, but also emphasize the romantic parts, like the way Jack looks at me like he’s trying to memorize my face for later, and how much it feels like he needs me, in some way, shape, or form.
Tara listens, face unreadable except for the way her blinks when I mention the age gap. “You realize he’s, like, what, forty-five?” she asks, brow furrowing in concern. “You’re barely legal, honey.”
“Twenty-one,” I say, a little defensively. “And he’s forty-five, not sixty. He’s barely double my age.”
Tara’s lips twitch. “That’s not the flex you think it is.”
I hold my hands up. “Look, he’s mature, he’s got his shit together, and I don’t have to explain memes to him. That’s good, right? I mean, the guys our age are still using acne medication while trying to find their first jobs.”