Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Whenever she smiles, I feel it in places I didn’t know could ache. I slow it down. Don’t crowd her.
She quirks her lips and lets the silence stretch, her finger tracing the rim of her wineglass like she’s buying time. I wait. My chest is tight with wanting, but I don’t rush her. If she wants to talk, I’ll listen all goddamn night.
I take a drink of my whiskey, “Tell me about your family.”
She hesitates, and it’s like she’s weighing a thousand possible answers all at once. “No siblings,” she says, with a shrug. “Only child. My parents were older when they had me. They’re both retired now, living the dream out in Walla Walla.”
I lean in, elbows on the table. “You close with them?”
“They’re fine,” she says. “Kind of formal, to be honest. The house was always neat, quiet. My dad’s a former engineer, my mom was a nurse. I was the weird, loud kid who always wanted more noise.”
Shit. I know that feeling. The hunger for chaos, for warmth.
“You ever wish you’d had siblings?” I ask, my voice low. She tilts her head, eyes catching on mine, and there’s a flicker. The one that says she’s about to say something that matters, even if she’d rather eat glass.
“All the time,” she says, finally. Her fingers do a lazy loop around the stem of her wineglass. “I’d watch my friends bicker with their sisters or get in fistfights with their brothers, and I’d get weirdly jealous. Like, wow, imagine having someone who’s contractually obligated to annoy you for life.”
She shrugs, but her shoulders roll higher than necessary. “My parents loved me, don’t get me wrong. But they’re very structured. I was sort of the chaos agent. I think they’re still recovering from the time I microwaved a tin can just to see what would happen.”
I just grin. “So you’re saying you were born to cause trouble.”
“Obviously.” She tips her glass in a fake toast. “But, you know, solo chaos gets old. Eventually you want someone on your side. Someone to, I don’t know, pull you out of the inevitable fires you start.”
Fuck. I already knew she owned but I had no idea how fucking perfect she really is.
I huff out a laugh and lift my whiskey, tipping it toward her. “I’m a member of the only child club, too. Guess we’re both the chaos agents in our families.”
“Let me guess,” she says, tilting her head, blue eyes all knowing and shiny. “You were the human version of a border collie. Breaking furniture and destroying everything in your path.”
“Entirely feral,” I admit. “I had way too much energy. My mom used to threaten me with boarding school. Instead, she bought me skates and signed me up for hockey.”
She snorts into her wine. “At least it worked out for you.”
“This is true.” I set the glass down, tracing the rim. Her eyes are glued to my face, hungry to know more, and it gets me right in the chest. “They didn’t do siblings, either. Work, routines, a lot of formality. Hockey was how we communicated. They showed up for every game, but we never really talked in between.”
She goes quiet. There’s a micro-expression, right there, raw and unguarded. Like she gets it. The loneliness that clings to your ribs even when you’ve filled every single seat in the bleachers.
“I never fit at home, either.” My fingers flex on the table. “But on the ice, it felt like home.”
“To only-child loneliness and finding where you fit in.” She holds up her glass to mine. I clink my whiskey to hers, and for a second, it’s like the whole world shrinks down to just this booth, this table, this woman. I watch her take a sip, lips deep red from the wine, and I have to look away before I do something unfit for public viewing.
She asks about hockey, and I give her a few scandalous locker-room stories. She tells me about the hospital, and I can practically see her in those scrubs, rolling her eyes at the chaos, secretly loving it. Her laugh does things to my chest I don’t have words for.
We order dessert even though we’re both stuffed. She pretends to be scandalized when I steal a bite of her tiramisu. I promise to make it up to her and she tells me she’s going to hold me to that.
Hours vanish. The booth, the emptying restaurant, the way our fingers are intertwined on the table. I can’t stop touching her. I don’t even try.
Eventually, we have to go. I pay the bill and lead her out into the chilly Seattle night. I open the car door for her, and for a second, just stare.
“I wish tonight wasn’t over,” I say. My voice is rough. The truth, plain as I can make it.