Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Just as I knew that Rafe’s date was none of my fucking business. In fact, it was low-key psycho that I couldn’t stop thinking about him and wondering if he’d been purposely dodging me.
I’d thought we’d started to connect, and I genuinely looked forward to banter over coffee. And I’d sort of hoped I could convince him to go to the new wholesale warehouse that had opened recently in Havenhurst. We could stock up on eggs, frozen waffles, and dino chicken nuggets, and he could tell me I was an overgrown kid and I’d tell him he reminded me of my grumpy Uncle Sam.
And since when did a few hours with Rafe sound better than hanging out with my friends?
I had a theory that this was all tied to sobriety. Like…maybe it was easier to be with someone who called me on my shit than it was to pretend I was a-okay with people I didn’t want to disappoint.
Not that I wasn’t okay.
I was fine.
Really. I was—
The sound of the lock turning pulled me back to reality.
Fuck. Finally.
I struck a casual pose on the sofa, feet up, my eyes glued to the sports highlights on the television. I was so still, Rafe probably thought I was half-asleep. He shot a quick glance into the family room on his way to the kitchen. No “Hello,” no “Why are your feet on the couch?” Nothing.
I sat up, frowning as Rafe poured water into a glass, swished it around his mouth, and spit into the sink.
“Dude. Are you okay?”
He whirled to face me, his hand on his heart. “You scared me. I thought you were passed out.”
The phraseology stung. He’d witnessed me “passed out” plenty of times, though.
“No, just watching NHL highlights. How’d it go tonight?”
“Huh?”
I cocked my head as I stood and flashed a wry grin that felt fake as hell. “The date. Weren’t you out with—”
“It was fine.” Rafe filled his glass again and repeated his rinse and spit action.
“What’s wrong? Did you eat something weird?”
“No, the food was great.” He swiped his forearm across his mouth and wrinkled his nose. “And the bread was sublime. Warm with salty butter and…delicious.”
“Love me some warm bread,” I commented, snatching his glass from under the faucet before he could refill it. “So what’s up? Why are you gargling?”
Rafe huffed. “Gargling is a bathroom activity. I have manners and standards and…”
I waited for him to finish his sentence, but he seemed preoccupied, his gaze wandering all over me.
“Yeah, well…my mom is Ms. Manners, and I guarantee she’d smack me upside the head if I spit in the kitchen sink.”
“Your mom is Ms. Manners,” he repeated incredulously.
“I guess Mrs. fits better, and why do you look so surprised?”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. It was”—Rafe shrugged as he leaned heavily against the counter—“an odd night.”
My senses went on high alert. “What did Eli do? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to do? Did he—”
“No! Nothing like that. It was just…”
“Just…what?” I prodded.
“We kissed and…”
“You’re killin’ me, Smalls. You kissed, and Eli slipped you a roofie or tried to get you to take drugs or—”
“Oh, my God, no. Nothing bad happened. He was a perfect gentleman.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion mixed with a whole lot of angst I wasn’t prepared to unpack. I should have been glad for him, instead of mildly bummed I didn’t have an excuse to punch someone. If I were being totally honest, I’d hoped the evening had been a bust. And that made no sense.
I scrubbed my hand over my scruffy jaw, studying Rafe for clues. I lingered a smidge too long on his slim hips and the snug fit of his jeans.
“Then what’s with the water?” I set the glass on the counter. “And don’t say nothing. You’re kind of freaking me out, Rafey. Do I need to kick his ass or not? ’Cause I will. Not everyone’s definition of inappropriate is the same. Don’t make exceptions based on what you—”
“Stop, Gus. He didn’t commit a crime, for fuck’s sake. It was just a bad kiss.”
“A bad kiss?” I repeated.
“Terrible.”
Scratching my nape, I eyed him with a dubious once-over. “How could a kiss be that bad?”
“Sloppy, too much tongue, too handsy, and no spark whatsoever,” Rafe reported, gnawing his lower lip. “I sound like a jerk. Don’t tell anyone I critiqued my date’s kissing skills. This stays between us.”
“Yeah, yeah. You act like I have a big mouth or something.”
“You do have a big mouth,” he countered without heat.
“And I know how to use it. Not to brag, but I’m an excellent kisser. Five stars, top shelf, VIP.”
“Says who?”
“People I’ve kissed.”
Rafe snorted. “Uh-huh. Do you ask for a rating immediately after a date, or do you give them twenty-four hours to post their reviews?”