Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
I fumble with my glass. “I’m … It … takes a bit of adjusting.”
“Heard their nephew’s lookin’ after the place ‘til it’s sold?”
I swallow hard. “He sure is.”
“You two were at the Ball together.” She smiles. “Heard about it from my assistant Malcolm. Oh, shoot, that isn’t what I’m callin’ him anymore. What’s his new title?” She gives up after two and a half seconds. “It just warms my heart seein’ fresh faces connecting in town, gettin’ closer.”
If only she knew how close we were getting.
How much we’re connecting.
“Now I don’t know much about the nephew,” she admits, “but if he’s anything like his Aunt Lottie and Uncle Marcos, he’s fiercely loyal, maybe to a fault, and will never let you down as a friend. I was one of Lottie’s bridesmaids,” she then whispers to me, like it’s some long-kept Spruce secret. “I won’t say much more than that, except that I wasn’t supposed to be, it was a last-minute thing, and I sure saved the day ‘cause otherwise there wasn’t anyone gonna be up on that stage on her side. People need to learn the value of commitment and honor nowadays, ‘cause it’s in short supply. Like your tea,” she adds, pointing at my glass. “I’ll refill you.”
And off she goes, leaving me thinking about commitment and honor. And fiercely loyal people.
And Diego’s hard, powerful eyes bearing down into mine.
And his warmth.
And that evening, I arrive home at the same time as he does, me in my car, Diego walking up the sidewalk. I’d offered him a ride to work earlier this morning, but he made up something about needing to walk, maybe a kind of post-sex cardio, I have no idea, I didn’t think much of it. And now, I’m watching him walk up his driveway to the front door of the house like he doesn’t see me. He pauses on the porch, hand on the railing, and after a long moment of hesitation, he finally glances my way. He says nothing. Shows nothing on his face. Just his usual hot and detached glower while he eats me with his eyes for dinner.
Then he heads inside.
And leaves the front door open.
I swallow, depart my car, and head over without a thought.
He’s standing in the kitchen, leaned back against the counter. There’s a grease mark across his forehead. His work shirt’s already off, balled up in his hand like nothing, revealing his wrinkled tank top undershirt, his dark blue work pants still on.
The cocktail aroma of diesel fuel, grease, and Diego’s sweat is quickly becoming my favorite aphrodisiac.
He doesn’t even say anything. For some reason, I don’t either. I just shut the door behind me and come across the kitchen. Even in front of him, he’s just staring me down like a challenge, waiting to see what I’ll do, waiting for my first move.
I take a handful of his sweaty tank top, give it a tug, and bring our lips together.
Here we go again.
We finish in the living room. As per usual, he doesn’t make a big deal afterwards, padding over to the laundry room buck naked with his clothes balled up. I tried starting up a little conversation the last few times, but it always fizzles out fast.
He doesn’t exactly tell me to leave.
But doesn’t ask me to stay, either.
Tonight, I decide to stay. “I could make us a pretty mean salad with what you’ve got here,” I tell him. “Hungry?”
“Sure,” he says, now in just a pair of boxers, as he starts to set the table and get us drinks.
We eat in silence, though it doesn’t feel awkward or tension-filled. He appears content. So do I. Neither of us seem to feel the need to fill the silence. He catches my eyes a few times across the table. I take another forkful into my mouth and wonder what he’s thinking. His foot grazes mine under the table, then pulls back. I gnaw on my lip, wondering if that was an accident, or if he’s doing that thing he always does, communicating in his oddly flirty ways.
It’s immediately after taking his last bite that he says, “Need a shower.”
I set my glass down. “Oh, uh … yeah. Me too.”
He gets up from the table and heads to the bathroom.
And leaves the door open.
This is starting to become his language.
He runs the water, strips his boxers, and enters the shower. I watch his blurred shape through the glass for a while, visible from here at the table. Then I get up, ditch whatever’s left of my own salad, and head to him.
Strip down.
Step inside.
Diego’s already facing me like he’s been impatiently waiting for hours. He wraps his arms around the small of my back at once, tugs me against him with urgency, and opens his lips onto mine. I barely catch my breath before he spins me around and presses me to the wall.