Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on,” I mutter at the screen as Carter chases it, arms outstretched. He leaps and hauls it close to his chest.
As he runs into the end zone, my heart explodes. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”
My neighbors are going to hate me. But I’ll live with their ire.
Powered by joy and adrenaline, I spin around and grab my phone from where I left it on the kitchen counter, tapping out a quick text to him. Amazing catch! You’re incredible!
Obviously he doesn’t have his phone with him on the field. But I still want him to know I sent it now. That I am rooting for him in this moment.
My tension loosens enough for me to go to the couch and flop down between my friends. I blow out a breath that I’ve probably been holding forever. “I’m feeling better,” I say, relieved.
Fable nods, patting my shoulder. “Yeah, it sounds like you just had an orgasm.”
“She has them every time he plays,” Juliet deadpans.
Elodie just peers at me with question marks in her eyes.
Questions I’ll have to answer later.
Questions I want to answer.
Later, after the Renegades seal up a win, I send another text to Carter, full of exclamation points and confetti. Juliet and Fable ask if they can help clean up the party leftovers, but I wave them off. Elodie hangs behind, saying she has to pick up Amanda at a friend’s place nearby soon.
But I don’t think that’s the only reason she’s sticking around. There’s a concerned but curious look in her eyes as we pick up glasses and plates. “How’s everything since I saw you?” she asks.
I set the plates on the counter and meet her gaze, then speak from the heart. “You helped me a lot.”
“Me? How?” She sounds shocked.
“By being my friend. By being a safe place. I hadn’t said that to anyone but Elena. But then, telling you…” I stop to take a deep, fueling breath. Kind of an excited breath, too, because this realization feels big. “I think it was the last of my letting go,” I admit in a hushed voice.
It feels fragile, the sentiment.
“Oh god,” she says, sounding amazed as she beams at me and comes in for a hug. “I’m so happy for you, Rachel.”
I choke up. “Me too.”
When she lets go, she arches a mischievous brow, shifting gears as she asks, “So?”
I feel a little bubbly. A little daring. But a lot scared. I feel, too, like my future is wide open. Like my somedays aren’t as far away as I’d thought they were. “I don’t know, but maybe we can just keep on dating,” I say.
It’s an idea, one that has taken hold of me.
When I slide into bed, there’s a text from him. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night. I’m giddy as I write back, Me too.
He replies a few seconds later with, I sent the info to your calendar.
I saw it there.
And it thrilled me, I want to add.
But I don’t because I’d rather focus on him. You were amazing tonight! Great touchdown catch!
His reply is instant. Your text made me happy.
I squeeze the phone in excitement.
You make me happy, I want to say. But that might be too much. That might give my bruised heart away. I’ll feel him out tomorrow. Make sure I’m not misinterpreting how things have felt on the last few dates. Better to be safe than stupid.
Tomorrow night, maybe I’ll feel bold enough to say those four words: you make me happy.
For now, I send a smiley face and go to bed.
Monday is busier than usual. In the morning, I stop by some other shops in the city to check out the competition, then I have lunch with a supplier. Fable keeps the home fires burning at Bling and Baubles in the afternoon, while I meet with a PR firm about some social media initiatives for the store. Why not capitalize on the Date Night thing? I’m having my fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak, and I might as well use them.
After that meeting, I hustle over to the shop. It’s already four o’clock, and I want to make sure everything is going well before I leave to get ready for my date. Carter should be landing any minute. Then he’ll go home. I picture both of us getting ready, like in a movie montage, and I hope he’s as nervous and excited as I am.
But I’m also scared of dinner.
Which is so stupid. It’s a freaking meal. I eat at that damn time every day. But fancy restaurants remind me so much of my ex and his lies. They remind me, too, of the way Edward tried to smooth them over with his fancy meals and elaborate stories.