Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Agree on the ballad. I’ll see what I can do. Send me the rest when you have it.
And that’s that. We haven’t addressed the elephant in the room, but he didn’t tell me to fuck off and lose his number. It’s progress.
I toss my phone on the couch and get back to work, wanting to make the most of the few minutes I have while Hope is in the shower. It’s also a very, very necessary distraction from the fact that she’s naked and wet ten feet away.
Coming to life, resurrected from the ash of mediocrity. Bury me six feet under, I’ll feed your righteous femininity.
That is what I want to do. Help Hope find the power in her divineness without sullying it with my own filth. But fuck, she’s making it hard. After touching her, seeing her ass right in front of my face, and watching that innocent smile curve her lips, all I want to do is throw her down on the nearest surface and show her what sex can and should be like.
But that’s not going to happen. It’s what I want, not what she needs. And I won’t be like that douchecanoe Roy and selfishly focus on my own desires.
She said it plain as day. What she needs is time to become who she’s always been meant to be. One Miss Hope Mercy Barlowe, woman on fire. And I can give her that.
Even if my dick disagrees.
Chapter 11
HOPE
It’s been a quiet day. I’ve been staring at the book I downloaded to take on my honeymoon—Hello, Steve and Blue . . . That should’ve been a big ol’ clue because who needs reading material while on vacation with their new spouse? Ben’s been plucking at his guitar and scribbling in a notebook. Every once in a while, he starts to hum, but I don’t know the song.
It’s been comfortable and easy, and it reminds me that I don’t need big, flashy changes to my life. Small things, like who you’re sitting with, can have a big impact.
“I like it the other way better,” I say when he changes the tune he’s humming, taking it up an octave.
“Huh?” he asks, looking up like he didn’t realize I could actually hear him.
“The song. You were doing it lower, but you went up that time. It’s better staying down. It feels moodier,” I tell him. I don’t know anything about music other than what I listen to on Spotify. My annual Wrapped feature usually showcases popular artists like Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran, Ariana Grande, and Stephen Sanchez, which doesn’t seem like Ben’s vibe, but I offer my opinion anyway.
“Oh.” He looks off to the side for a moment, and it’s like I can see the music playing in his head.
“What song is it?” A thought hits me hard, and I realize what he’s been doing. “Oh my God! Are you writing a song?”
He must be. I’ve been watching as he plays, writes in his notebook, and stares off into space. How did I not realize sooner? I’m such an idiot.
Or you were distracted by the way his tattoos move when his fingers press the strings down.
Okay, that’s true too. But he’s obviously writing a song. And it’s just now hitting me.
Ben looks terrified for a split second, and then shutters close down over his expression. His dark eyes go vacant, his jaw goes hard, and I can feel a void between us when a few moments ago, there was only warm comfort.
“Sorry, I just didn’t realize that’s what you were doing,” I say, wishing I hadn’t said anything.
He grits his teeth for a minute, pinning me with a look. Finally, he sighs. “I am. It’s something I’ve done since I learned to play. It’s how I process things. Like my own screwed-up version of therapy.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. It sounds so evolved and self-aware, but Ben makes it sound like he’s ashamed of it.
“Does it work? Maybe I should try it,” I offer lightly, trying to step away from the land mine that this apparently is for him. “I definitely need therapy.” I tap my temple, well aware that he’s seen me do some pretty silly things over the last few days.
Ironically, I feel more at peace now than I have in months.
He plucks at the guitar a few times. “It’s kept my shit sorted for the most part, because it could’ve been worse. A lot worse.” His gaze goes hazy as his defenses drop and he shares, “My mom worked her ass off for us, usually two, sometimes three jobs. I was alone, well . . . it was just me and Sean. His mom worked a lot too. Anyway, we’d taken to stealing sodas from the gas station on the corner, just a few at a time so we wouldn’t get caught, and selling them to make a few bucks. That’s how I saved enough to get my first guitar. I used YouTube videos to learn how to play—chords at first, and eventually songs. It became my new obsession, which probably kept me out of any real trouble at that point.”