Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
My clothes are hanging, organized by color. On the left are work and dressy clothes. On the right are casual ensembles. And in the middle is an island dresser where I house all of my pretty unmentionables and pajamas. I saved one drawer for jewelry.
One by one, I pull out each garment from the tote, shake it out, and hang it up, replaying the conversation in the car earlier.
Not only did I go on about the clothes, but then I humiliated myself more by basically whining about the fact that he didn’t want me. For the love of all that’s holy, I should have just launched myself out of the vehicle. Road rash would be more comfortable than this horrible embarrassment I feel. I should have just told him this is the real me and left it at that, but no. I had to rant and rave about my feelings, and that’s so mortifying.
But when I fell asleep, he pulled me against him, which was an unexpected surprise. He was warm and hard, and I’m fairly certain there were times when I woke up enough to feel him kissing my hair or brushing his fingers up and down my arm.
There are moments when he looks at me, or during those moments when I slept against him, that I feel like he wants to be tender. He wants to talk or just be near me, and it’s not simply sexual. But he holds himself back, and it makes me want to scream.
I hang a Chanel scarf and sigh.
I said my piece. The rest is up to him.
“I need to move on,” I whisper as I open the second tote and continue hanging my finds. “If he eventually comes around and decides to ask for my number or start an actual conversation, fine. But he probably won’t. So I need to move the fuck on.”
When the last item of clothing is hung, I carefully select my outfit for work tomorrow and hang it near the mirror, then I take a hot shower and climb into my pajama pants and the shirt I wear to bed every night.
Connor’s shirt.
It doesn’t smell like him anymore because I’ve washed it about a hundred times, which makes me sad. But it’s so soft and big on me, and for reasons I haven’t examined too closely, it comforts me.
“Stupid,” I mutter as I pad into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. I stand at the sink, looking out the window to my postage-stamp-sized backyard as I sip the water, and then turn off all the lights, make sure the doors are locked, and head to my bedroom, where I’ll lie awake and stare at the ceiling all night.
What a bizarre day. Exceptionally fun shopping with Martha, as always, and a delicious, peaceful lunch … that Connor paid for, and then a strange car ride home with the mercurial Mr. Gallagher. My mental health day was hijacked. Here’s hoping next month’s trip is less eventful.
“We’re going out,” Dani informs me the following Saturday afternoon. She found me in the dark romance section of my store, and she’s got her hands on her hips, smiling at me.
“Hello to you, too,” I reply with a laugh as I shelve a copy of Haunting Adeline. “I can’t go out tonight. I have a book and a bottle of wine waiting for me.”
I’m so fucking tired. I didn’t sleep all week because I kept overthinking the whole car ride from Big Sky with Connor, and all I want to do is relax. My shop is closed on Sunday, so I get to sleep in tomorrow.
“You’re coming,” Dani says, scowling at me. “We haven’t had a girls’ night out in months.”
“We had book club last week.”
“That’s not the same, and you know it,” Skyla adds, surprising me as she walks around the bookcase.
“You’re ganging up on me now?”
“Yep.” Dani smiles and tucks her dark hair behind her ear. “We need it, Bee. Bridger’s off this weekend, so he’s staying home with Birdie. Alex is coming, too.”
Dani’s twin sister missed book club last week, and I haven’t seen her in a while.
“I do miss Alex,” I say with a resigned sigh. “Fine. I’ll come. Where are we going?”
“Just to the Wolf Den.” Skyla claps her hands. “Huckleberry margaritas are calling our names, and we can play some pool, or dance, or just talk. Who knows, maybe you’ll find some cute tourists to flirt with.”
I shake my head, putting all thoughts of that to a stop right away. “No. No more tourists for me.”
Not that Connor was really a tourist. Hell, I don’t know what Connor was.
Sexy. Connor was sexy.
“What time?” I ask.
“We’re thinking around seven? That way, we can have dinner, too.”
“Cool, I can be at home with my book by nine.”
Skyla rolls her pretty green eyes. “We’re going to have fun. Wear something scandalous.”