Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
She nods a few times, her blue eyes thoughtful, as if she’s taking my comments at face value. “I’m glad.” She takes a beat, her brain clearly working through something.
“Before you almost got married,” she begins, and I tense, unsure where she’s going. “You never mentioned things with Chad were…less than ideal,” she says, since we’ve got a lot to catch up on. “Were you surprised when you learned he was cheating on you? Was there relief? Were you feeling all along that maybe he wasn’t the one?”
Those are good questions—ones I mulled over all summer. Was I simply fooled, or had I fooled myself? “Things seemed good enough,” I say, answering truthfully since that’s the point of going to therapy.
Elena nods, as if she’s absorbing that. “We’ve talked a lot about perfection. Your pursuit of it. Letting go of that pursuit too. It’s interesting that you expect perfection from yourself but not from others.”
Damn. Way to cut to my core. “It’s not really fair to expect perfection in other people,” I argue.
“True, but ‘good enough’ shouldn’t be the standard either,” she says.
And those are some wise words.
Ones I’ll have to carry with me if I ever date again.
When I return home later that day, my heart squeezes as I advance toward my apartment. The gift man has struck again.
There’s a bag outside my door, but it’s bigger this time—overflowing, almost. I feel spoiled and thrilled in equal parts. I paw through it: yoga blocks, yoga bolsters, and a brand-new yoga mat.
I grab the note tucked inside, feeling a little giddy as I rip it open.
Here’s a bonus of sorts for an excellent first two weeks on the job. But it doesn’t just come with all these fun accoutrements for your yoga corner. I want to build some shelves for the candles and stuff.
—T
The candles have a bright, clean scent—citrusy, like oranges and sunshine. It feels like the kind of smell you’d wear to conquer the day, and I can’t help but smile. This is more than good enough.
My mind spins, and my heart feels all sorts of floaty. It’s such a thoughtful gift, especially because one of the candles says in rhinestones, I’m a Fucking Star.
I roll my lips together like that’ll seal in my excitement, but it doesn’t work.
I’m far too delighted for any one person to be, so I rush up the stairs. I stop short when I find him in the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee and smirking.
He knows what he did. He knows I just discovered the gift.
“Do you want to build some shelves with me?” I sing in tune to the Frozen song.
He checks the time. “You know what? I really do.”
He sets down his coffee and heads off, presumably to get a toolbox.
And that makes me even hotter.
16
OFFICIAL YOGA POSE
Sabrina
He’s drilling. I repeat—my hot, single-dad boss is drilling. I might as well strip out of all my clothes right now. Instead, as I hold the bookshelf against the wall, he drills holes into the brackets. He’s inches from me, and his woodsmoke scent taunts me, curling past my nose and drifting into my mind.
I swallow roughly as his arm vibrates from the drill.
Pretty sure I vibrate too.
His body is so close. I let myself stare freely—the way the muscles in his corded forearms flex, how his biceps move, how his shirt clings to him.
His focus is intense, his eyes narrowed on the bracket on the second shelf, since he already hung one. A few more seconds pass, then he turns off the drill and shifts his gaze to me.
His hazel eyes radiate hopefulness but also pride, as he asks, “What do you think?”
Like he wants me to like it.
But news flash: I love it. And what I really think is that I was today years old when I discovered my new guilty pleasure: hot dad capableness. Yum.
“I think it looks…well hung,” I say before I even consider the words leaving my mouth. The second I do, I slam my palm over my lips. I should not be allowed to speak sometimes. Where does this part of me even come from? Little Miss Perfectionist Sabrina never blurted out her dirty thoughts when she was with Fuck Chad.
Tyler blinks. Once. Twice. But when he clears his throat, he’s no longer caught off guard—he’s in control. “It is, Sabrina. It is,” he says, his voice low and amused as he pats the shelf. “Sturdy. Want to give it a tug?”
My heart beats too fast. He’s playing with me, and I love it. “Yes,” I croak out.
I reach for the shelf, grab it, and yank. Yep. This shelf does not lose its strength at all. When I let go, I scramble for something appropriate to say but completely fail. Instead, I blurt, “Chad was never handy. I like handy.”