Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
He catches it easily and hands it back to me. “What’s in the bag?”
Shaking my head vehemently, I taunt, “Nuh-uh, you first. Tell me about this quote-unquote ‘place around the corner,’ and maybe I’ll tell you about the absolutely, most amazing, awesomest thing I’ve ever bought.” I hug the bag to my chest, all too aware that I’ve got my life in my hands, literally . . . well, financially.
“It’s jewelry, isn’t it?” he says flatly.
“Okay, that was a good guess, but you still have to show me yours before I’ll show you mine.”
He makes a choking sound like his spit went down wrong, so I step around him to pat him on the back. “You okay there, big fella?”
But rather than worrying about him choking to death on a city sidewalk and me being publicly responsible for the death of one of our city’s favorite hockey players, I’m suddenly acutely aware of how high I have to reach to hit his upper back, and how muscled that back is, and how hot he is even through the light jacket he’s wearing over his white T-shirt and black jeans.
Not appreciating my life-saving maneuvers the way a civilized person would, he shrugs me off and grunts, “Come on, let’s get this over with. I’ve got shit to do today that doesn’t involve an impromptu tour of downtown.”
“I’ve got shit to do, too, you know,” I say.
My busy schedule involves such exciting things as unwrapping my newly purchased ring, staring at it with naked eyes and then again with loupes, and then squealing in excitement and nerves as I dance around my apartment, imagining what I’m going to do with it. After that, I’ll have an existential crisis, hyperventilating as I worry that it’s too much and yelling at myself for maxing out my credit card. Eventually, I’ll move to phase three: calming myself down with a bag of sour-cream-and-onion chips before I pull out my sketch pad to start forming some ideas. So yeah, we’re all busy, bucko.
I should tell him never mind, that I don’t care where he was or what he was doing anyway. He can fuck off, and I’ll continue on my merry way, happily talking to myself like I was before he so rudely interrupted me. But I don’t. His initial reluctance to tell me makes me really want to know.
Which is why I let him lead me down the sidewalk and around the corner, eying every storefront sign, apartment window, and person we pass like the answer might be right in front of me. When Griffin stops, I still look around, not sure why he’s no longer moving unless it’s to let my short-legged steps catch up with his long-legged strides.
He squints down at me, his expression something along the lines of let me have it. Confused, I look around again, finding that we’re in front of an ice cream shop called Kitty’s Creamery. Even though it’s mostly adult clientele, it looks like something out of a little girl’s imagination, with pink-on-pink-striped awnings, a cartoon cat logo on the door, and through the window, I can see delicate-looking turquoise iron tables and chairs, bubble-style light fixtures, and a pink display case with handwritten labels for the flavors.
“This is where you go sometimes?” I ask, repeating his earlier words.
Am I judging him? Hell yeah, I am. There’s got to be fifteen different ice cream shops closer to his house, and at least thirty kinds he could buy at the grocery store, but he comes here? To the pink princess palace of ice creameries? That’s fucking hilarious. I can imagine him sitting on the teeny-tiny chairs, which probably only fit one of his ass cheeks, licking at a cone the size of one of his fingers and trying not to get it everywhere. Like Alice after she eats the cake in Wonderland and grows into a giant. Not to mention it’s kinda chilly out. I mean, I eat ice cream in the dead of winter, but I do it at home, wrapped in a blanket, with sweats and socks on to stay warm, like a normal person.
“They have my favorite flavor,” he declares.
I raise my brows questioningly, needing to hear this. If it’s something like Yumilicious Boo-Berries and Dreamy-Creamy, I will lose my shit and he will never hear the end of this.
“Death by Chocolate,” he grumbles.
I smirk, sensing the lie. “Death by Chocolate, you say? Sounds good.” I move toward the door, grabbing the handle—the one shaped like a kitten’s paw with pink-painted claw nails—and pull. Suddenly, the door slams shut in front of me, and I look up to see Griffin’s big paw—with naked, trimmed nails and thick fingers—holding it closed.
“Fine, that’s not what it’s called.”
Now totally committed, I pull on the door handle harder, and he relents, even grabbing the door and holding it open for me so I can go inside. Behind me, I hear his mutters of displeasure and sighs of irritation, but since I always seem to have that effect on him, I ignore them.