Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Again …?
“You still remember the way my lips feel, don’t you? From our little moment under the Christmas tree? Before we even knew what each other’s faces looked like?”
Of course I do. I can feel his lips on mine right now, even from that single moment we shared, no matter how brief it was.
I feel how pliable they were. How soft and full.
He tasted perfect, and for one solid second, I didn’t even know it was his lips I was tasting. Before the panic set in of what I was doing—of what we’d done, falling on top of each other—I was in pure heaven as our lips knew each other before we did.
I could have tasted them again today if I wanted.
Samuel was willing. He gave me ample opportunity.
In the back by the tables. In the crafts store as we shopped. At the T&S Shoppe. At the clinic, all alone.
“You want me to kiss you, Malckie?”
I don’t know when it happened, but there’s a soft hand under the sheets, it has slipped down the front of my pajama pants, and it is making me feel really, really good.
“Malckie …”
How can I possibly be so close when his imaginary lips haven’t even touched mine yet? When his imaginary hands aren’t even on my body yet? When all I can hear is his sexy, taunting invitations?
“Do it for me, Malckie.”
Samuel …
“Malckie …”
It happens so fast. I flap my eyes open, alarmed, as pleasure rockets through me with a freeing, soul-exploding potency I have never felt in my life. Every knot of tension in my body is gone. All my stresses. All my sadness. All my everything. I sigh happily.
The sheets are wet.
I’ll have to do something about that in a minute.
But for now, I just turn to Jimmy Strong, still grinning from his picture frame. “Fuck you,” I say rather cheerily to him, slap the picture down on its face, then bask in my personal afterglow.
Chapter 9
Let’s Make A Spruce Truce.
Morning comes quicker than expected.
A little bit like I did last night.
For a crazy moment, I feel like everyone in the house knows of my shameful act. But when I step out of my room and gaze over the banister, I only see a ton of busy bodies rushing around doing Nadine’s bidding. This house isn’t allowed to rest at all this week, and the very last thought anyone seems to be having is of me.
That’s certainly a relief.
After getting dressed and making myself presentable, I come down the stairs to join the rest of humanity. Quickly, I find I’m of little use to anyone. Each person seems to have their task assigned already, my dad is nowhere to be found, and no matter who I ask, no one seems to need any help.
So I sit on a bench on the front porch and attempt to send my sister Aurora a text. The lousy signal out here doesn’t seem to allow me even that pleasure, and I can’t possibly be bothered to hunt Nadine down for her ranch’s Wi-Fi password, so I’m just left tiredly staring at my phone, wondering if I should get a coffee.
Someone takes a seat next to me.
With two mugs of coffee.
I stiffen up without turning his way. “What do you want?”
He extends a mug my way. “Truce?”
Steam dances from the surface of the light brown liquid. He’s added cream and sweetener, too, I notice, judging from the color.
As it turns out, Samuel is exactly who I was hoping to see. I take the mug from him, blow gently, then dare a sip. It’s perfect. How’s it possible that Samuel knows exactly how I take my coffee?
Of course he does.
“You’d think I’d be sick of coffee,” I mutter, “after working at a hipster bistro in Fairview for two and a half years. But I acquired a taste for it, shockingly.”
“Hipster bistro …?”
“Internet café, basically. People only came for the Wi-Fi and to pull out their laptops and look like pretentious poets or uppity writers. No one was ever fooled except themselves.” I take another sip. It’s still perfect. Do I thank him?
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I flinch.
An apology isn’t what I expected. What’s he apologizing for?
“For yesterday,” he goes on. “What I said in the kitchen. The way I behaved. It was … It was childish. You were right.”
Did I call him childish?
I barely remember the words we exchanged.
What was I right about? Can he tell me?
“You were right about me being jealous. I think I was. I guess I had unfair expectations, since we’d spent a lot of the day together. Call me crazy, but I just pictured us stickin’ together, bonding over our joint disdain for everyone else’s happiness, having a fun time about it … I guess I was a fool for dreamin’ too much.”
I clutch the mug with both hands, mulling over his words, not sure what to say or how to respond.