Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
It was sobering, and not a little shameful, to realize that Bernie expected less from me than I expected from myself. Less than she would have from Morgan or our mother. I couldn’t be angry about it, because it wasn’t an unfair assumption. I’d been defined by my absence, and that definition was not flattering. All this time I’d thought the only person affected by isolating myself so completely was me, but obviously, I was wrong.
When I got home, after making Merlin suffer through some loving that he pretended not to appreciate, the first thing I did was take another shower. The hours running around in the heat had put my deodorant to the test. And that episode in Wade’s office was so hot it had decimated it completely.
I put my hair up and got into the shower to scrub my aching muscles clean. When my fingers encountered the residual slickness and sensitivity between my legs, a new flood of arousal hit me so hard, I briefly toyed with the idea of getting myself off to the memory of what happened today. Seductive Wade had been even more difficult to resist than Everyday Wade. No more suggestive words and potentially meaningful eye contact for me to obsess over every time we said hello. There was no doubt about his intentions, or my reaction to them. If he hadn’t insisted on slowing things down there at the end, he might be in this shower with me right now.
Naked, soapy Wade would be a reality.
That’s what I wanted. Settling for my own hand or the pulsating shower head (no matter how sweetly it had treated me in the past) held no interest anymore. Only the real thing would do.
He said he wanted me to take without giving for a few days. Did that mean he would be knocking on my door tomorrow to dole out another orgasm, like a drug dealer? Should I text him for a backyard booty call? How would this even work?
Since my mind was racing with possibilities anyway, I decided to put some of my frustrated sexual energy into my book. I rinsed off quickly and pulled on my slouchy writing clothes, brewed myself a cup of coffee and headed upstairs, soothed by the familiar ritual.
What I noticed when I opened my computer was the opposite of soothing.
Three missed calls from Morgan.
“Crap.”
She’d said she wouldn’t call me after the cruise started, but once the hurricane hit, she’d changed her tune, calling every other day, if only for a minute or two. She’d wanted updates on my roof, the wall, and everything the insurance check was paying for (It was her way of showing she cared).
But today I hadn’t been here. On instinct I looked at my phone and saw the text message I hadn’t noticed until now. She must have sent it when I was on my lunch break with Wade.
Morgan: Is everything okay? Wondering if you got that last project done. Will call tomorrow at the usual time.
Me: I’ll talk to you then.
Guilt was a lump of lead in my stomach. She’d been reaching out to make sure I was good instead of enjoying every minute of her cruise, and I hadn’t even told her the truth about Wade renting the apartment. Worse, I’d made her friend my accomplice. It didn’t matter that it was his idea. I’d okayed it. I was responsible.
It wasn’t the only thing I was keeping from her now. Jiminy and the race. Trading bookkeeping for home improvement help. Telling Chick I’d sell the house and move to San Diego. Now I was taking shifts at the icehouse and fooling around with Wade.
Was I in the running for worst sister ever?
Only if I didn’t come clean before she found out.
She would eventually. She always did. The last time I talked to her, she’d already known Wade was “couch surfing” at Mom’s because of Lucy and Rick. I should have corrected her then, but I hadn’t. And I knew the reason why.
It was all well and good for Wade to say it was nobody’s business but ours, but that was never how our small, dysfunctional family worked. When you grew up like we did, three girls all piled in one car while crossing the country in order to pile into one tiny apartment after another, secrets and privacy were rare and closely guarded luxuries instead of the norm. We’d all known way too much about each other’s habits and personal lives. That was one of the things Morgan hated when she was a teenager.
I could use that reasoning to justify my full-to-the-brim basket of white lies and omissions, but I also knew how much it would hurt her when things finally came to light. I couldn’t do it. Something had to give.
I would tell her about the rental agreement. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but because the call was from the ship, it would at least be short. I should warn Wade first, I thought, typing out the text before I could change my mind.