Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
There’s nothing I can say to this. Objectively, I know she’s right. I know what I’m feeling makes no sense. I guess it just hits me so hard because, deep down, I assumed she’d instinctively side with me. The age thing aside, what I feel is so similar to what happened with her and Dad.
“You make some good points,” I mutter, “about previous relationships and not having experience. I get that, but I feel so sure, Mom. I feel so—”
The doorbell cuts me off. Mom frowns. “Are you expecting visitors?” Ever since Dad passed, anything out of the ordinary causes Mom to become defensive and anxious. An unexpected visitor is up there on the list.
“No,” I say. “Maybe it’s a salesperson or something. I’ll go check.”
Or maybe, I’m secretly hoping, it’s Fletcher. He’s come to reconnect after all the drama earlier. With each step toward the door, I feel my sex rubbing against my underwear. I’ve showered since the steaminess, but I can still feel the impression on my body.
Opening the door, I’m greeted by a courier holding a large bouquet of flowers, even bigger than the last ones. There’s another note with these. From James. How about a second chance?
“Are they from him?” Mom asks.
The way she says him almost has me snapping again. If these were from Fletcher, I’d be joyfully punching the air.
“No,” I say. “They’re from his son.”
Mom frowns again, deeper this time, almost comically so. She has a very expressive face. One thing I remember most vividly from my early childhood is the exaggerated faces she’d make at me. “Is there any reason his son is sending you so many flowers?”
“I don’t understand it,” I reply. “It doesn’t make sense. We had one bad date. I don’t know why he won’t just leave me alone. I’m going to call Lexi.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting James’ cell number. He has to know this isn’t okay.”
I go upstairs, grab my phone, and call my friend. She seems curious about why I want James’ number, but then she gives it to me. When I get ready to make the call, there’s a pit in my belly trying to stop me from doing it. It’s the same pit that opened on the date the countless times I tried to interrupt his douchebaggery.
I almost don’t press call, but I have to.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Fletcher
I sit in the living room, staring at the TV, at the World War II documentary, not paying attention. James sits in the chair. It’s difficult to even look at my son after earlier. At least, I tell myself, he doesn’t want Samantha, my perfect painter. Even if he does, it’s not in the same way as I do.
His cell phone starts to ring. He answers and clears his throat. “S-Samantha?” he says.
I sit up. I can’t help it. I’ve been thinking about what we did and her taste all day. I’ve been thinking about her reaction, like she was angry with me for trying to push her too fast, and my virgin had every right to be.
“Yeah,” James says. “No, a PI. Because I wanted to be romantic. No. What? Just give me a second chance. Because… because…” He sighs, slamming his phone on the coffee table. “Fuck.”
“What was that about a PI?” I ask, sitting forward.
James runs a hand through his hair, groaning. “Did Samantha say anything about me earlier when you gave her a ride?”
This is exactly the sort of messed-up conversation I wanted to avoid having. “No,” I say truthfully. Hopefully, he doesn’t ask me anything else. Hopefully, he doesn’t ask if I kissed her, touched her, and want to do it all again.
“She’s overreacting,” he says.
“Why did you mention a PI?” I press.
“It’s nothing. It’s just… I wanted to send her flowers, so I hired a PI to get her address. Now she’s acting like I’ve tried to rob her or something.”
I clench my fists and breathe slowly, trying not to flood with rage. He’s my son—my baby boy. Holding him in my arms for the first time was the happiest day of my life, even if I knew I had to return to work soon. I’d have to become cold soon.
“She doesn’t sound like she wants you to send her flowers again,” I say slowly.
“I don’t get why she won’t give me a second chance.”
“Why do you want a second chance?” I growl.
“Because… because…” He shakes his head as if he hasn’t given this any thought. He can’t give me a reason. I could give a thousand for why I want her, need her. “I just don’t see how that one date has to define me. She thinks I’m some asshole. I was nervous. I wasn’t very nice. I get that, but I can be better.”
“But what about her?” I say. “I hear a lot of me, me, me. What about her?”