Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I hesitate before I send it because this level of forward action and initiation is unusual for me. My old-fashioned principles always seem to wait for the guy to make the arrangements.
But what the hell!
I hit send and set my phone down. He probably won’t see that until after the game tonight, which will be super late my time since he’s on the other side of the country.
To my surprise, my text chimes almost immediately and I scramble to grab it.
It’s him. That depends. Are you asking me out, Ms. Shaw?
I bite my lip, smiling as I reply, I am. When are you free?
The three little dots blink. Then: Tomorrow night. We’re flying a red-eye back.
I start to tap on my screen, but I see the little dots blinking again, indicating he’s got more to say, so I wait.
But I’ll only agree to this third date if there’s a kiss at the end. I’m starting to feel like I’m in a very flirty hostage negotiation.
My heart does a whole cartwheel. I stare at the screen for a second, then type back: That’s a bold assumption.
His reply is an emoji. The purple devil one. It’s a bold request. But I like my odds.
I shake my head, cheeks flushed. Bold indeed.
Which makes me want to be bold in return. How about I cook you dinner?
I wait breathlessly for his reply because surely that will induce further flirting. But I wait, and I wait, and I wait.
My stomach sinks a little, and I think… maybe that was inappropriate. Maybe that’s a level too serious. Maybe… he doesn’t like me in a romantic way and coming to my house would be crossing a casual line?
Brain running away, panic settling in, I start trying to recall the text when his reply chimes in.
Sorry… Atlas threw his jockstrap at me. But yes… dinner at your house is perfect.
I make a tiny squeak of delight and tap out the information before adding: 7 pm. Be prepared for Buttermilk to give you a Spanish Inquisition-style interrogation with only the power of his beady little eyes.
And that’s it. Date number three is officially happening.
And if he’s still as charming and disarming as he was on dates one and two… I might be in trouble.
The best kind.
CHAPTER 14
Lucky
I’m on time and admittedly, a little nervous as I ring Winnie’s doorbell. Of all the ways a man might imagine a woman opening her door to him, she fits my fantasy perfectly.
Winnie’s feet are bare and she’s wearing faded jeans. I take in the purple V-neck that says Let’s Get Figgy with It, complete with an image of a fig dancing under disco lights. I stare at it, trying hard not to notice how it accentuates her breasts, and laugh.
“You dress like this on purpose, don’t you?” I ask, stepping inside.
“I like to keep expectations low,” she shrugs.
And then there’s Buttermilk.
He’s parked inside the doorway like a small, judgmental bouncer, completely still, nose twitching. His beady eyes track me like he’s calculating my worth in carrot credit scores. I absently rub at my neck where I normally have my lucky rabbit’s foot, but I knew it would be in poor taste to wear it in front of Buttermilk.
“Does he always greet guests like a passive-aggressive doorman?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously.
“That’s his nice stance,” she quips, shutting the door and nodding down at the rabbit. “If he didn’t like you, he’d attack.”
“Wait! What?” I ask, taking a step aside. Buttermilk thumps a back leg and that seems pretty aggressive to me.
“Relax,” she says with a straight face. “He’s had his rabies shots.”
“No pressure then.” I hold out the flowers I had been hiding behind my back—sunflowers and daisies, bright and cheerful, like Winnie. I keep one eye on the rabbit in case he makes a move. “I come bearing peace offerings.”
She smiles as she takes them, and I swear my brain shorts out a little.
“You brought me flowers?” she murmurs as she sticks her nose in the bouquet and inhales. I had sniffed them myself and didn’t find them very fragrant. She glances up at me. “They’re wonderful.”
“They’re one of the things on my list.”
She tilts her head. “What list?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Well, come on in… want a beer?”
“That would be great,” I say as I look around.
Winnie’s house isn’t big or flashy, but it feels like her.
The walls are a warm, creamy yellow. The floors are hardwood, slightly scuffed in a way that says people live here. String lights hang around the windows and framed art is scattered across the walls—some look like real paintings, some like her niece’s masterpieces from school. There’s a ceramic bunny on a bookshelf next to a stack of what look like romance novels, a basket of dog toys, even though she doesn’t have a dog, so I’m guessing Buttermilk plays with them. The teeth marks in the rubberized bone are a little disconcerting.