Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“So who’s the guy in the BMW?”
How did I know this was coming? “Just a guy.”
“You got dressed up to go out to dinner with him,” he points out.
“He was taking me to a nice restaurant. I wasn’t going to wear jeans and combat boots.” I sip my wine, then give him what he’s obviously searching for. “His name is Charles; we dated for a couple years when we were in high school. He’s a lawyer. I normally wouldn’t have agreed to dinner with him, but he asked me out in front of my mom, and my mom thinks he’s a catch, so I agreed to a date. I went, I found out what I already knew—I’m not interested at all—and I won’t be seeing him again.”
“Good.” He takes another pull from his beer.
“I won’t be seeing him again because I don’t want to, not because you don’t want me to.”
“Whatever. As long as you’re not seeing him again, I don’t give a fuck what your reasons are.”
“Remember when I said I’d kick you out if you aggravated me?”
He smirks, and I swear there’s something about that confident look that makes me want to throw myself against him and pull his mouth down to mine. My heart speeds up, and my stomach actually tugs in his direction, like it’s trying to get me to move toward him. I don’t do it, but I swear, from the look he gives me, he knows I want to.
Crap.
Suggestion 4
TELL HIM THE TRUTH
LEAH
With my feet aching, I get out of my car and head into my house while the garage door closes behind me. Once inside, I kick off my heels near the door to the garage and wander barefoot down the hall toward my bedroom.
Saturdays at the salon are no joke. I was busy from the moment I opened the doors at eight until my last client left at seven. All I want to do is put on some comfortable clothes, find something to eat, and sit on my couch with my feet up. When I reach my bedroom, I strip out of my top and jeans and put on a pair of leggings and one of my old baggy T-shirts.
I go to the kitchen and flip on the light, and Mouse, who’s on top of the upper cabinets, meows at me. “I know; I’m getting your dinner first.” I grab a pack of his wet cat food and dump it in his bowl, then go in search of something to make for myself. Hearing an odd scraping sound coming from the front room, I head in that direction, and the scraping sound stops. I really hope I don’t have mice. I swear I will lose it if I do. The noise comes back, and I realize it’s coming from the front door. I unhook the lock, pull it open, and smile when I see Bruce.
“Hey, big guy.” I rub the top of his head and scratch behind his ears. I let him inside and go in search of my phone so I can let Tyler know I have his dog. Last evening, Tyler stayed until he finished his beer, and while he was here, Bruce and Mouse seemed to get along. There were a couple of times when Mouse went out of his way to try to annoy him, but Bruce ignored him for the most part. Okay, he chased him through the house when he was done being pestered, but he didn’t bite him. Then again, he didn’t catch him either.
I finally find my phone and send Tyler a text before I go back to the kitchen with Bruce on my heels. I grab a big bowl, one of the ones I use when I bake, because a cereal bowl just isn’t going to cut it. I dump half a box of Fruity Pebbles in it, then top it off with milk. I take my bowl of cereal to the living room and turn on the TV. Once I’m seated, I sigh as I put my feet up on the coffee table.
Bruce lies at my feet as I flip through channels. I eventually find something worth watching and dig into my dinner. Halfway through an episode of The Real Housewives, the doorbell rings, so I reluctantly get off the couch. Taking my bowl with me, I step over Bruce, who doesn’t get up. When I pull the door open, Tyler smiles at me, then frowns down at my meal.
“Is that your dinner?”
“Yes.” I leave him to close the door, and I step over Bruce again, taking a seat and putting my feet back up.
“Long day?” he asks.
“The longest,” I respond before filling my mouth with soggy fruity goodness.
He takes a seat next to me so close that his thigh brushes mine, then rests his arm on the back of the couch over my shoulders. “My dog’s abandoned me.” At his comment, I glance at him and see he’s looking at Bruce lying under my outstretched legs. “Since I got home from work, I only saw him long enough to feed him. Right after that, he pounded on the door until I let him outside, and then he came right over here to camp out on your porch.”