Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
She smiles widely, her white teeth gleaming. “They symbolize prosperity, so with the season starting I figured you can’t really get enough of that.”
I pat one of the fruit. “I will take all the good fortune I can possibly get. Question, though.” I tilt my head, quizzically. “I’ve always wondered about kumquats? What do they symbolize?”
“They’re a symbol for the fruit with the naughtiest-sounding name in the universe.”
I smack the seat for emphasis. “There’s literally no way to say that name and have it not sound like a filthy sex act.”
“Yes, that may be why I tried to avoid eating it with my family while growing up. It’s a hugely awkward word to say in front of your parents.”
I rip a small hole in the bag with my index finger and yank out a pomelo. I hold it high above my head like it’s Simba and I’m in The Lion King. “And with this fruit, I will have a kickass year.” I set the pomelo next to me on the seat. “Speaking of fruit and gifts,” I say as the car winds its way out of the city, heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Seems great minds think alike.”
I dip my hand into the shopping bag and give her the small cherry pie. “Open it,” I tell her, nodding to the tinfoil.
She brings it to her nose. “Oh my God, it smells delicious. I thought I smelled baked goods when you got into the car, but then I figured you were endorsing some amazing new pie cologne.”
I laugh and drag a hand through my hair. “If there is ever a pie cologne, count me in.”
“Yeah, me, too. Because I thought you smelled good enough to eat.” Then her mouth falls open, and her eyes widen in seeming shock. She shakes her head, as if she’s course correcting. “I meant . . . you smelled . . . The car smelled . . . gah.”
She drops her head to her free hand, and I can’t stop laughing. I also can’t resist patting her back. “It’s okay, Jillian. I am absolutely good enough to eat.” When she raises her face, her cheeks are flaming red. I point at them. “And look, the color of your cheeks is good luck.”
“I can’t believe I said that. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” Especially since I’m hoping her awkwardness is an omen that my luck with her might be changing. I nod at the pie. “Open it.”
She peels back the aluminum foil and stares at the treat with wide, hungry eyes.
“I baked a cherry pie for you. As a way of saying thanks for thinking of me for the calendar.”
She raises her face. “You bake?”
I shrug. “I’m learning. Harlan’s the baking master, and I like to stay busy during the off-season, so this summer I worked on agility training with Cletus and I learned to bake a few things from Harlan. He won’t share the recipes, though, so this one I just helped with. But it’s fresh out of the oven, since I went over there this morning.”
“To make it for me?” She puts her hand on her chest, her eyes wide and vulnerable.
“You said you love cherries . . .”
“Oh my God,” she murmurs, lowering her eyes.
“Wait. You’re not gluten-free, are you?”
She snaps up her gaze. “No way.”
I hand her a fork from the bag. “Want a bite?”
“Will you share it with me?”
“I don’t usually indulge in sweets. Training regimen and all.”
“More for me, then,” she says with a glint in her eyes.
“But maybe I’ll allow myself one small bite.”
She digs into the pie, takes a bite, and murmurs her appreciation. Her eyes sparkle. “Jones,” she whispers, like we have a secret, “this is amazing.”
She’s complimenting the pie, but I’ll take it. Oh yes, will I ever take it. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Here,” she says, forking a chunk of pastry and filling.
I open my mouth, waiting for her. She freezes, then does that thing again where she nibbles on the corner of her lips, before she extends the fork to my mouth. Keeping my eyes on her, I close my lips on the pie, savoring the crust and the sweet, juicy flavor of the cherries.
I don’t break eye contact. I watch her the whole time, mostly because she can’t seem to stop looking at me. She never looks at me for this long. She never looks at me like she can’t stop.
I like her eyes on me.
I like it so fucking much.
When I’m done, she takes the fork away, and her hand seems to fall languidly at her side.
“Yes, I do love cherries,” I say. “So very much.”
12
JILLIAN
Katie was wrong.
My ovaries are so fine.
They can handle this photo shoot, no problem.
Really, what’s so hard to take about a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-eight-pound guy with toned, strong muscles everywhere on his frame hugging a mixed-breed Australian shepherd puppy?