Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Someone needs to help him sell this story and that someone is me. “Though we haven’t stopped talking since we met. It’s just been constant phone calls and texts, right?”
“Right,” he says slowly.
“It might have only been a couple of days. Which is wild when you stop and think about it. But it feels like we know everything about each other, doesn’t it?”
He nods and watches me with interest. Like he’s enjoying the show.
“I’ve never had that before. When you just meet someone and click. Like you immediately feel at ease and can tell them anything, trust them with everything.” There’s a good chance I practiced this monologue in the mirror while perfecting my smile. Same goes for staring meaningfully into his eyes. “Moving here and meeting Connor has been…well…a gift.”
Nicole is pressing a hand to her chest. Lulu looks vaguely ill. And Stuart’s eyebrows are as high as the sky. I am not saying I deserve an Oscar. Though I wouldn’t say no to one. But it’s Martha’s expression that gets me. There’s a sly little smile on her face suggesting she’s as pleased as can be. Makes me wonder how much she knows about our sudden relationship. Or how much she’s guessed.
Meanwhile, Connor’s gaze now holds more than a hint of amusement. Good. It would seem I am a little protective of my pretend boyfriend. But those are laugh lines around his eyes. He wasn’t always a brooder. Nor should he continue to be.
“He’s just so sweet,” I continue, turning to the far end of the table with a smile so wide it would scare small children. Just all the sharp teeth. “Do you know he rushed to the grocery store last night just to help me? You raised a gentleman, Denise. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Yes, well,” she says, but her tone is less sure.
Connor and I haven’t gotten around to covering the basics. The boundaries for our fake relationship. But holding hands should be okay. No way can we do this without some PDA.
His hands rest on the table, one wrapped around the bottle of beer. I reach out, watching him all the while, giving him a chance to withdraw. Then it happens. He opens his fingers, turning his palm up in silent invitation, giving me a safe place to rest my own. His skin is rougher than mine, the grip of his hand stronger. As if he likes having someone to hold on to.
My smile has softened into something more natural. I know this because my cheeks have stopped hurting. “This might sound silly, but the moment I saw him, I just knew.”
“Knew what?” asks Stuart.
His daughter is delighted by the comedy. But his wife elbows him sharply in the side. She doesn’t spare the pain, either, if the noise he makes is any indication.
Nicole’s eyes are bright with unshed tears and it’s nice to know I can make someone cry tonight for the right reasons. “What about you, Connor?” she asks. “Did you know too?”
“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat. “I definitely knew something.”
I smile and he gives me a wink.
His whole demeanor is different now. There’s none of the earlier tension. He sits relaxed back in his chair, holding my hand while taking a swig of his beer. I did that. I made him happy. Which is nice, but not a big deal. There is certainly no reason for the weird warmth filling my chest. No doubt it’s just thanks to a job well done. I slide my hand out of his grip and reach for my beer. We don’t want to go overboard on the touching too early.
At the other end of the table, Denise has apparently had enough of the lovefest and starts removing covers from the food. “We should eat. This will all be getting cold.”
Everyone moves to help.
Martha stands and takes the dish from in front of me. She then proceeds to wave around a serving spoon like it’s a wand or a weapon. “Riley, you’re the guest. Let me make a plate for you. Denise made her potato salad and deviled eggs. You’ll want some of those. I made salmon cakes and my broccoli salad.”
“She loves vegetables,” says Connor. “Give her lots of that, Grandma.”
“Will do.”
I discreetly kick his foot under the table like an adult and say, “It all sounds great, Martha.”
“Mmhmm. Pass around some of that cornbread you made, Connor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, doing as told.
Martha holds out the plate while preparing to dip the serving spoon into the largest pot on the table. But she pauses and asks her grandson, “Does she eat hot food?”
“She” being me. “You mean spicy?” I ask.
“Yeah. Load her up,” says Connor, oblivious to the “oh hell no” in my eyes, thanks to him being focused on trying to bump the side of my sandal with the side of his boot. So immature.