Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“I think you’re mentally unstable. Is that an asset when treating patients? Like you can literally put yourself in their shoes.”
“Will, you’re not using literally in the most literal way because you don’t mean that I’m going to wear anyone’s sneakers.”
“You’re such a liar. All that talk about not calling someone out for saying the wrong thing or wrong word because it’s embarrassing. Yet, here you are doing just that.”
“I don’t think you’re embarrassed that I’m fine-tuning your grammar. I think you’re embarrassed that I caught you looking at me in the shower this morning.”
I scoff. “The way I caught you looking at me in the shower eleven years ago? And I wasn’t checking you out. I was looking at your implants.”
She snorts. “My breasts?”
“Let me guess. Your implants are in your breasts, so the literal term is breasts since I can’t actually see the implants? Is that what you were going to say?”
“No.” She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I was going to say I’m surprised you were focused on my breasts after being so curious about Wilbur.”
Shit. I forgot to look for that pig tattoo.
“What do you think of them?” She glances down at her chest. “I think they’re the perfect size. Perky with just the right amount of bounce. But now everyone is getting their implants removed because they’re making them sick. So don’t get too attached to them. I might not have them forever.” She looks up at me and shrugs like we’re talking about her keeping her car or selling it.
“Well”—I glance over her shoulder before she says anything about me staring at her boobs—“not everyone is getting them removed. That’s not literally true.”
“I didn’t say literally everyone.”
I hate her. Sure, I want to rip off her clothes and see just how bouncy her new boobs are, but mostly I hate her.
When I look at her again, she grins. It’s big and toothy. Obnoxious. In the next breath, it simmers a bit.
“Sorry to hear about your mom. How’s she doing?”
“What?” I squint.
“You told your dad she had a hysterectomy.”
“Fifteen years ago. My dad has dementia or something going on with his memory.”
“Oh. That must be frustrating. Has he had a neurological evaluation?”
It’s mind-blowing just how easily this woman can shift from batshit-crazy Everleigh to completely normal and professional Dr. Reichart.
As if she can read my mind, she folds her hands in front of her.
“Everything about my dad is frustrating at the moment. But mostly it’s sad with the occasional comedic relief, like when he goes off about my mom being pregnant with another man’s child because her breasts are big. And before you ask, yes, she has implants too.”
“Was that difficult for you? It’s not uncommon for sons to feel uneasy or awkward about their mothers changing parts of their bodies that are associated with both comfort (for example, breastfeeding or the familiarity of a warm embrace) and sexuality.”
“Are you shrinking me over my mother’s implants?”
“It could be awkward for her too. Especially if you stare at them.”
I cringe. “God! Stop that shit, Everleigh. I don’t stare at my mom’s breasts.”
She purses her lips, but that doesn’t hide her amusement. Her body shifts, and I notice something. It’s the hands. When she’s no longer Dr. Reichart, she folds them behind her like she’s on the verge of dropping her chin and saying “Aw, shucks.” It’s her tell.
“You’re a terrible psychiatrist.”
“I’m not your psychiatrist. I’m your friend. And friends tease each other.”
Hence, the hands folded behind her.
“We’re not friends.” I step past her and keep walking toward the house.
“Then what are we?” She jogs to catch up.
“I’m your landlord. You’re my tenant, whom I’m evicting.”
“On what grounds?”
“Theft.”
“What are you talking about?”
I unlace my boots by the back door. “You stole my razor.”
“Borrowed it.”
“There are some things you don’t borrow. Like condoms, toothbrushes, and razors. Borrowing implies you will return it. And no one returns a used condom, toothbrush, or razor.” I stand, gazing down at her.
“Sometimes, borrow means that you’ll replace the item instead of returning the original. Like borrowing a cup of sugar to bake a cake.”
I grit my teeth and hold up my hands, making connected C shapes, then I shake them, strangling the air instead of her neck.
Her eyes flare as she watches my control wither away to nearly nothing. Then she clears her throat and checks her watch. “I might take my nappuccino early.”
“Good idea,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
When she turns and heads toward the shed, I close my eyes for a second. If I don’t kill her (a 99.99 percent probability), I’ll end up fucking her senseless, marrying her, and having a half dozen kids and a bird named after a groundbreaking scientist who no one with an average IQ has heard of (a 00.01 percent chance).
Chapter Eighteen
Everleigh
“So how’s it going?” Maren asks as she, Jamie, and I enjoy delectable European-style pastries and fine espresso at Le Petit Bakehouse just off the Hip Strip. Its brick walls and fun ’70s vibe make it my favorite place to chill and listen to audiobooks when I have a few hours free, not to mention the sweet smell of baked goods and freshly brewed coffee.