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)
“Thank you for your service,” she says, holding out her hand.
I stare at it. “I’m not shaking your hand.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m pissed off.”
“Go home and sleep. I’ll call Alba and tell her to dust and clean toilets. I’ll vacuum tonight when I get home. Does that sound like a good idea?”
I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging it while trying to shake this building frustration. “You know what sounds like a good idea to me?”
“What?”
“You staying out of my business. You not telling my friends that there’s sexual tension between us. There is tension between us, but it’s not sexual. It’s the kind of tension that leads to a Dateline murder mystery episode.” I drop my hands to my sides.
“Have you ever taken a Xanax or Ativan?”
“What?” I squint.
“They’re fast-acting benzodiazepines for panic attacks and acute anxiety.”
“I’m not having a panic attack, and I don’t have acute anxiety. I don’t need drugs. I need you to move out of my house and never contact me again!” I stalk toward the door, but she jumps in front of me before I can open it. “Get out of my way.”
She slowly shakes her head, wide-eyed gaze locked with mine. I’m not sure what her game is, but it’s not me. I’m tired of being played.
“Dr. Reichart would tell me to step aside and move out of your shed immediately. She hates seeing grown women chase men who don’t want them. So can we just keep this between us?” she asks in a weird third-person narrative.
“Keep what between—”
Everleigh shifts all of her weight onto her tippy-toes and grabs the back of my neck to kiss me. I could stop her because I’m stronger than she is. But I don’t. Instead, I let her kiss me. And for a few seconds, that’s it. Her kissing me.
She doesn’t stop. No giving up. Everleigh has never been a quitter.
So I kiss her back. Just my lips move at first, then I slide my hands around her tiny waist and pull her to me. Her breasts press against my chest, and I feel a low hum from her before I hear it. I don’t know what’s happening. This is not the beginning of the 00.01 percent scenario.
No.
It’s a kiss.
I know how to just kiss, the way I know how to just have sex. These skills of mine have kept me unmarried and unattached for forty years.
The problem?
This might be the longest kiss of my life. The fraction of space between us fills with the forced breaths through our noses. Her hands slide into my hair, fingers curling to grip it as mine drop a few inches to grab her ass. This makes her hum turn into a moan that I swallow.
Why does she have to smell like a bouquet and taste like a candy cane?
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. After it quits for a few seconds, it vibrates again. Everleigh’s firm grip of my hair feels like an accelerator, fueling whatever is happening, and I don’t care who’s calling me.
But again, it vibrates. Someone’s antsy to reach me, and just that thought sobers me up enough to release her. We stare at each other, eyes unblinking, lips parted, breaths labored.
Everleigh slowly lifts her hand to wipe the smeared lipstick from her face, and I mirror her because it must be all over mine as well. What the hell do I say?
Oops?
Sorry?
My bad?
She started it.
Again, my phone vibrates, so I pull it from my pocket. “Yeah?” I answer it, turning my back to Everleigh while combing my free hand through my hair. My dick is hard. Mind jumbled. And the voice coming from the phone does nothing to comfort me.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks in his slow Eeyore voice.
“Uh, I’m . . . nothing. Errands. Uh, what’s wrong?” I ask because something must be wrong for him to call me so relentlessly.
“There were raisins in the cookie.”
“What?” I flip the shades and stare out the window overlooking a sports field. Hopefully, Everleigh has a patient waiting, and she’ll disappear before I end this conversation.
“At lunch. The cookie had raisins. You know I hate raisins. I don’t know why God invented them. I told the lady I needed a cookie that didn’t have raisins. She said she’d see what she could do. That was almost two hours ago.”
“Dad.” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead and rub tiny circles. “Are you really calling me about a cookie?”
“Yeah. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Did you call Mom?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Tough cookie.’”
I pinch my bottom lip to hide my grin. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“I want you to call the main headquarters and find out what’s taking them so long to bring me my cookie.”