Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
The hard line of his jaw softens, and I see something familiar in his face…relief.
I move closer, my heart thumping like the wings of a hummingbird, as I sit down beside him. “You know,” I begin, my voice light and teasing, “everyone knows that blue is the only acceptable color.”
The sound of his exhale makes my shoulders uncoil.
I turn to face him. Only a few moments ago, his lips were in a straight line, but now they curl upward into a smirk. The tension between us dissipates, replaced by an unspoken understanding.
Leaning forward, I start to sort the bowl for him.
Removing the colors he doesn’t like.
His hand reaches in, and we work in silence.
Just as we did so many times before.
7
AIDEN
What the fuck is happening?
I’m sitting here, sorting Sweet Tarts with the woman I just used to fuck the tension out of me. We work in silence; her allowing me my impulses without judgment.
I waited for the words to come. The words that always came when I gave in to my needs…
What is wrong with you?
Why can’t you be normal?
The screams of the past echo in my ears, but instead of taunting, I’m met with silence.
I watched her face closely when she found me sorting out the blues, and there was zero hint of laughter at my expense. She actually jumped right in to help. Something I’ve never allowed anyone.
Well…except…
I shake that thought from my head. Nothing good comes from looking back.
I’ve built a new life. One I can be proud of, despite all the things working against me. And I’ve done it by keeping my private life just that…private.
Now I’ve allowed this unknown woman into my space, and she’s seen the things I do.
Control.
Sort.
Fixate.
What is going through her head?
We’ve been working in tandem seamlessly, the quiet not seeming to bother either of us. But now that we’re nearing the end, the silence is suffocating. Is that when this peaceful moment between us will shatter with the questions she will undoubtedly ask?
That’s not something I’m going to allow to happen. My secrets are mine, and I control the narrative. Besides, I don’t think I could handle this woman poking around and uncovering just how fucked up I am.
I clear my throat and speak. “Thank you.”
She turns to me, eyes narrowed, but I don’t say anything.
Eventually, she shrugs. “It’s no problem.”
That’s it. That’s all she says. No questions. So I continue weaving my tale, just like I did at the beginning with Mike and the guys.
“It’s part of my pre-game ritual. I’m sure it doesn’t make sense to you, but all the guys have them. This is one of mine.”
She blinks a few times, and I wonder what she’s thinking. What’s she going to say?
I’m full of shit.
Obviously, I have pre-game rituals. That part isn’t a lie. This, though…it’s not one of them. This is a compulsion I’ve had for as long as I can remember.
“I’ve heard about athletes doing that.” She gathers up all the other colors, tossing them in her bag. My eyebrow lifts in question. “You aren’t going to eat them, and I have a roommate who will. Why let them go to waste?”
I smirk but don’t comment.
She isn’t wrong. They would’ve hit the trash as soon as she left. And then, I’ll clean the table, but that’s a whole other thing, and now that I’ve thought about it, I can see the specks of sugar tormenting me from beside the bowl.
All of a sudden, she gets up and crosses the space. I have no idea where she’s going, but a second later, I understand. She’s grabbed the cleaning antibacterial wipes from the bathroom and is removing all traces of the dust left behind.
The mess is gone. I can breathe again.
“You know…” she says, and I prepare to hear something I don’t like. “You could hire someone to do these things for you.”
My shoulders straighten. “I said they’re pre-game rituals. I have to do it.”
She purses her lips, and I know she wants to argue with me, but she doesn’t, and for some unknown reason, it puts me more at ease than I already was with her.
“I don’t want people knowing my business.” That’s the truth. I don’t need people to know about all the stuff I do because I have to, to function. I can pretend some of my stuff is superstitions but not all of it.
“You make them sign your NDA.” She turns toward me. “Make sure you’re—” She pauses, trying to find her words. “Comfortable. With the person. With the process.”
Someone like her. Can I find a person who doesn’t judge like she didn’t? Hiring someone would pose too many questions. The applicants would all have to sign nondisclosure agreements, and someone would talk. It would get out.
They would look at me like I was a—nope. Not going there.