Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
"It's a great filtering system," she had insisted.
Everyone would say I was often a little too trusting, not knowing what types of people to guard myself against. So there was some validity to her statement. After my father, she had developed a pretty good ability to tell a good guy from a bad one. And while none of my relationships worked out in the long term, none of them had been overly dramatic or upsetting in any way. Just pieces that didn't fit, just different desires for our futures. Normal reasons that people break up every single day.
"He's been a regular for ages," she added, absentmindedly scrubbing down the counters in our kitchen despite them already being clean - just a habit she acquired from serving tables. "He works at that big building across the street. He's always dressed nicely when he comes in. Friendly. Tips well."
It was my mother's firmly-held belief that the way a person treats people who wait on them says a lot - if not everything - about them. And while she understood that not everyone could afford to tip over fifteen percent, she thought if you were going out to eat, the tip should be factored into your budget. If you couldn't afford the tip, you shouldn't be expecting someone to wait on you.
"That's why we never go out to eat," she added with emphasis. "Or we get something to go on the rare occasions that we can splurge."
"I don't really want a relationship right now, Mom," I insisted, willing her to take me at my word.
"There's more to life than working and cutting coupons, Annie. You need to get out more. You're too young to be cooped up with the likes of me all the time."
"I like the likes of you," I reminded her.
"Well, I think you might like Thomas too."
I could tell right then that she was going to put her foot down over this. Like she had when she insisted I quit the job with the awful manager that made me cry every night after work. Even though we both knew we needed the money. Even though it would make things hard for a while.
So I took the easy route.
I agreed to meet with him.
"He was nice at the beginning," I told Cam, shaking my head. "But I guess they are all nice at the beginning. That's how they get you."
I had no reason to suspect him, to think he was anything other than a nice, hard-working, average guy. He was a few years older and maybe a little stuffy at times. But he was decently attractive, he had good manners, he didn't talk about himself too much on our first date.
He'd even taken me to a fancy restaurant that I had only ever been able to dream about going to. Though, in retrospect, I highly suspected that my mother had given him the hint about that. It was just too perfect.
There was nothing at all about that date to set me on edge, to make me believe Thomas was anything other than your average guy.
Actually, if you had asked me then, I would have told you that he was better than the average guy.
He had a good job that allowed him the freedom to work from home sometimes, a great salary, a nice car. He listened when I spoke. Even attentively. That in and of itself had seemed like a dream.
I'd been happy to accept his offer of a second date.
Then a third.
"That was the beginning, I guess," I told Cam as he tapped my plate, wanting me to take another bite before continuing.
I was full, but the concern in his eyes made me want to humor him. So, I ate. Then I continued.
The problem was the third date.
Because that was when it was time to take things to another level. Thomas, of course, had been nothing but a gentleman the first two dates. He opened doors, pulled out chairs, had me order first.
But he never put a hand on me.
Then, at the very end of our third date, before opening my car door for me, he backed me up against the side of the car.
I won't lie, though everything about me made me want to lie. To say things were different. But they weren't.
I had wanted him to kiss me.
My insides skittered around when he moved in close, my nerve endings firing off in anticipation.
Then it happened.
I expected choirs to sing, my body to rejoice.
Instead, crickets chirped, my body rebelled.
I like to think that, in that very moment, something within me recognized something odd, unnatural inside him. That was why I couldn't enjoy the kiss. That was why I was disgusted by the feel of his saliva on my lips, why I wanted to retch when his tongue moved over mine. I felt myself stiffen when his hand slid just a little too high on my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast.