Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Well, I didn’t expect to get confirmation of that today,” Drake says, stroking his chin. “And I’m rather surprised to get it from Francine …”
“What are you talking about?”
He drops his hand, his eyes twinkling. “When you spin on it, it’s magic.”
“Like there was any doubt.” I mock him with a smile. “How did your show go this afternoon?”
“This is such an imbalanced friendship. Do you know that?”
I roll my eyes. “You only listened to mine because you were here.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe I listen to yours every week.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I say sarcastically as I return to the search for my keys. “But even if I were a …” I lift my gaze to his. “What sports season is it right now?”
“Baseball.”
I nod before diving back into my tote. “Even if I were a baseball fan, I spent the late morning up to my knees in a dumpster. That reminds me—I need to check to see when my tetanus shot expires. Ah ha!” I pull my keys out from under a tampon and dangle them in the air. “I knew they were in there.”
“Can we back up to the part about you in a dumpster?”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with why.”
Drake half leans, half sits on the edge of the table, rolling up his shirtsleeves. Inch by inch, he exposes his forearms in a casually cool kind of way. I’d think he doesn’t know what he’s doing—giving great forearm—if it weren’t for the way the corners of his lip quirk toward the ceiling.
“Why?” I repeat. “Well, I was doomscrolling the other night and saw someone cutting butterflies out of cans. And I had an idea to take this one weird wall in my kitchen and fill it with butterflies made from different-colored cans. I think it would look beautiful, and it’s basically free if I can use discarded material. Then, if I ever get tired of it, I can pull them down and recycle them.” I beam. “Smart, huh?”
“Yeah. Great. Now, what about the tetanus part?”
I run a hand absentmindedly over my calf. “I got scratched by something while rummaging. A piece of glass, I think.”
“How deep?” he asks, his brows pulling together. His words are absent from the breeziness of before. “Do you know what the glass was from?”
“It’s a little hard to tell what touches you when everything shifts each time you move. Have you never been in a dumpster?”
He cocks his head to the side, as if he’s uncertain whether to laugh or have me committed. “No, Gianna. I’ve never been in a dumpster.”
“Well, you’re missing out. I mean, you have to pick the right one, but you can find fascinating things in there.”
“I bet,” he deadpans. “Now, where did it slice you?”
“My leg. But really, it’s fine. It barely got me.”
He lifts off the table and pats the place he just vacated. “Grab a seat.”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
He sighs, squeezing his eyes closed. “Humor me.”
“It’s fine.”
“Sit.” His eyes open, jaw ticking, and his gaze narrows. “Now.”
Damn, that’s hot. I should push back and not let him anywhere near me when he’s bossy like this—a side of him that I’ve gotten occasional glimpses of before. But who am I to refuse kindness? People say you get out of the world what you put into it, and I’ve put a lot of nice vibes out there. If the universe is trying to repay me with Drake Bennett’s hands on my skin, I can’t really turn that down. That would be rude.
And such a missed opportunity.
“You really need to work on your bedside manner.” I make a face as I round the corner of the table. He, however, isn’t amused. “Seriously, relax. I have a friend who's a doctor. I’ll send her a picture of the cut when I get home.”
“Your friend is a doctor?” He steps back as I hop onto the table and pull my knee up to my chest. “A real one?”
“You say that like you’re surprised that a doctor would be friends with me.”
He arches a brow. “You didn’t answer my question, which makes me more doubtful.”
“Yes, she’s a doctor,” I say with mock exasperation. “In philosophy but she’s a doctor nonetheless.” I hike my pant leg up to expose the little cut on the side of my lower leg. It’s crimson and jagged—decidedly not pretty. But it doesn’t look infected. “See? It’s not bad.”
He takes the back of my leg with his large hand, bringing the small red line closer to him. His palm is warm, and his fingers press into my skin. His touch is tender, but his skin is rough, and if he notices my goose bumps, he doesn’t show it. It’s this juxtaposition mixed with his genuine concern that has me struggling not to pant.