Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“No eyes,” he agrees in a release of anxious breath.
“No eyes,” I repeat again for some reason.
Then we stare silently at each other for ten long seconds in a dark bowling alley parking lot.
In the blink of an eye, I’m running a plastic keycard over a lock, and we enter Room 420. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting such a nice room. Smooth hardwood flooring. Clean double queen beds. Big-ass TV on the wall. Wide painting of a field of wheat under a sunrise above. Mini-fridge and coffeemaker with an assortment of free pods and individually-packaged cups. Nice table by the wide window, two chairs, a lamp, drapes drawn open showing a view of the town. Microwave with two complementary popcorn packages and a room service menu. I have to chuckle at the popcorn. We hardly ate five kernels of the overpriced tub back at the theater.
“Smells nice,” says Timothy, having done his own little survey and stopping by the window.
“Except for maybe a hint of … something herbal?” I mutter.
“It is room 420,” he points out.
I come to the other side of the window, but find myself drawn more to the sight of him than the town. “Is there a reason you go by Timothy instead of TJ?”
“Oh, you remembered.” He’s clasping his hands in front of him, leaning against the opened drapes. He chuckles. “Honestly, it started as a petty reaction to no one at home taking me seriously. I went by Timothy at school. Felt like I could become a new person that way. A proper ‘adult’,” he says with a playful straightening of his back. He slouches. “Habit hasn’t quite caught on at home yet.”
“They’ll catch on,” I assure him.
He smiles, appreciating that, I guess.
We hear a distant police siren. I come closer to the window to get a look, for a second drawn to the noise, but the cop car must be out of sight. I don’t even see the red and blue lights.
He came closer, too, apparently.
We’re touching shoulders again.
“I was afraid you’d find Spruce … boring,” he confesses.
I glance at him. “Really?”
“As well as tonight.” He rubs at a small spot on the window, as if to wipe away a smudge. “Thought you’d think bowling was lame. And I had no idea what else we might do afterwards.”
His constant concern with me is so endearing. “Tonight was the exact opposite of lame, Timothy.”
He looks at me, surprised.
I almost want to laugh, seeing the shock on his face. “And I had a great time in Spruce. Even the first time when I ran into that stupid pole. I don’t get out much, believe it or not.”
He lets out a breath, as if his instinct was to laugh in disbelief, then he goes quiet for whatever reason. “Is that what inspired you to follow your favorite star across Texas?”
I can’t look away from his eyes. “Something like that.”
“So this is, like … your first big adventure or something?”
My eyes are lost in his. “First one that counted.”
He presses his lips together. His gaze drops to my mouth, as if remembering the back of the movie theater.
I can’t help but smile, try as I might to hold it back. “So really I should thank you. For helpin’ pull my head outta my own ass.”
His eyes flick back up to mine.
He panics.
Then he turns back to the window. “I don’t really like crowds, either. Just like you. I’m … much better in an intimate setting, just a couple of friends hanging out, or just one really special one.” He frowns. “Not that I’m doing a good job of proving that right now. I’m … clearly so nervous around you for some reason.”
“Why?” I absently put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m easygoing, Timothy. Nothing to be nervous about at all. We’re not doing anything, remember? We’re just hangin’ out ‘cause it’s late, and neither of us wanna take a long drive back to—”
He cuts me off with a kiss.
Right then, right there.
All my words are gone.
All my thoughts, with them.
My hands are on him, too, completely incapable of controlling them. From the way his body responds, he’s no better, wanting my hands on him as badly as he wants his on me.
And his mouth.
Goddamn, his mouth …
I’ve been craving another kiss since the millisecond the last one ended in that movie theater. And as soon as this one starts, you better bet I’m locked right back in.
As if our kiss in the theater never ended.
An unfinished song.
Begging for another chorus. Another crowd-pleaser. Can’t get enough of his lips. His taste. The way he’s both fierce and gentle at the same time.
Then his hands find my shoulders. He turns me, and my back presses to the window, hat knocked off, tumbling to the floor.
He means business suddenly.
This is the stuff of love songs, but I’m too in the moment to appreciate it. This is what drives people crazy, whether wanting it and not having it, or tasting it and never getting enough, or loving it so much you’re scared you’ll lose yourself and never come back.