Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Emily pouted before popping her sunglasses back into place and jogging to catch up to me. “Fine. Show me one you think is better.”
“This one isn’t bad,” I said, pausing at a Hyundai Tucson.
Emily wrinkled her nose. “This does not scream hot NFL player looking to shag.”
“Who said I’m looking to shag?”
She pursed her lips and slid her sunglasses down her nose to glare at me.
“And who even says shag? What are you, British?”
“Oh, I’ve got some British in me. Or should I say, I’ve had some British in me.”
She smirked with the tease, popping a bubble with the gum she was chewing, and though it was meant to be a joke, my stomach soured and my jaw tensed. I didn’t want to think about another man being inside her. I didn’t want to think about anyone else touching her, period.
Which makes no sense, you idiot, because she isn’t yours and never will be.
“Come on,” Emily said, slipping her arm through mine and tugging me down the line. “We can do better.”
We passed a few cars that neither of us stopped to investigate, the price tag being too high, or the style not matching what I was looking for. As we walked, the sun beamed down on us pleasantly, a beautiful spring day in Seattle. Summer would swing in soon, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t have plenty of cold days ahead.
That was what I loved most about Seattle. Even in July, you could have mornings in the fifties, the sky a soft gray blanket overhead. Some people complained about the chill or the clouds, but I’d always liked it. It reminded me of Boston — of brisk mornings walking to school, of pulling a hoodie over my head and shoving my hands in the pocket, of a time when life had almost felt simple. Or at least simpler. Seattle had that same kind of quiet comfort to it, like the world was inviting me to slow down, to curl up somewhere warm and stay there a while.
It was also the best weather for football.
“I like your tattoos, by the way,” I mused as we walked. I tapped the vine and flowers snaking over her forearm and down her wrist. “Do they all have a story?”
“A story? Sure,” she said. “I got that one in Las Vegas after I won four-hundred dollars on a slot machine. This one,” she said next, pointing to the butterfly over her navel. “I got from a guy with a teardrop tattoo who was friends with my roommate at the time and just happened to have a tattoo gun with him. He was taking his apprenticeship. I told him he could practice on me.”
My brows shot up.
“And this one,” she said, tapping the larger piece on her thigh — a lioness with roses and thorns surrounding it. “I got this from an artist who took six months to book in Austin. Her books would fill up the second she posted them, and I finally managed to get an appointment. It was the last tattoo I got before I moved. So yeah, lots of stories. Do they have meaning, though?” She shrugged. “Not really. I just get what I feel like, whatever moves me at the moment.”
“Every piece is so unique,” I said, taking the excuse to survey her body and the ink stretching over it. “It feels thought out.”
“Isn’t that the fun part? Sometimes spontaneity and chaos can mask itself as a grand master plan.”
“You never freak out about committing to something for your whole life like that?”
“Nah. It’s not that serious. Just art — and I love to be a canvas.” She smiled up at me. “What about you? Any ink hiding under this ridiculously soft shirt? Nice outfit, by the way. Love the shoes.”
I smirked, looking down at the outfit in question — a fitted charcoal tee, tapered joggers, and a pair of clean white sneakers, finished with one of the many caps I rotated through like clockwork. I knew I wanted to be comfortable, but I also had always taken pride in how I looked. My therapist said it was a way for me to control something in an otherwise uncontrollable situation. Whatever the reason, I had a closet full of hats and shoes and clothing from my favorite designers — Vuori, John Elliot, and Aimé Leon Dore, to name a few. Most of them were thrifted, but every now and then I splurged on myself. It was the one thing I did for me.
“I have one,” I said, pushing the sleeve of my shirt up to show the bull on my triceps.
Emily smiled, tracing the black lines. “Taurus?”
“Not me,” I said.
Emily’s phone buzzed loud from her pocket, interrupting before I could finish. She fished out her cell while I stopped to inspect a Toyota. It already had over a hundred-thousand miles on it, so I passed, moving on to the next.