Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Monroe swallows, a little roughly. “I believe you’ve made your point.”
I shimmy my shoulders, preening a little. “Good. Want me to play some now?”
I kind of hope he says no. I don’t need to get in a sexy mood in the car.
“No. Let’s continue with the show tunes torture,” he says.
Thank god. I hit my playlist, and the big, opening number to the jukebox musical fills the car. “There you go.”
He grits his teeth. “I can handle it. I can handle anything.”
“It’ll make you stronger,” I say. “Build your immunity.”
“Excellent,” he grumbles.
As the catchy music plays, I get down to business. “All right. What do you think we’ll walk into in this house? I looked up the link you sent me, but do you think the interior is still the same as in the pictures?”
“As in shag carpet seventies? Neon eighties? And grunge nineties?”
“Yup.”
“The decor might have changed since she bought the home. The pics were pre-sale to Eleanor,” he says, always the measured one.
“Did she even live in it?”
“The attorney didn’t say. He just said everything inside it was ours—the furnishings and whatever else is there. And Eleanor’s at sea, and she didn’t mention any more details in her note. Maybe it was an investment property of hers all along? And she felt it was time to offload it?”
“Perhaps.” I clap my hands together. “Oh, I wonder what the beds will be like. I packed my pillow in case hers is uncomfy.”
“I’m not sure we should stay in the house, Juliet. The inn still has plenty of rooms. I checked before we left,” he says, and he sounds tense. He likes to know what he’s getting into.
“Of course you did,” I say. But I’m not concerned yet. There’s plenty of time to make that call. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with, and then we can decide. We were just gifted a house. It honestly seems wasteful to book a room too.”
He sighs heavily. He’s probably picturing army-green shag rugs, old curtains, and musty closets. I should let him stew on those images. But I’m not that cruel to Mister Likes His Routine. “It’ll be fine. Whatever’s in the home, I know we can handle it. It’ll be like when someone calls into the show for advice. We deal with it on the fly.”
A laugh seems to burst from his chest.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“You. You prep for dates but not for life.”
“Because I can’t control what’s in a house.”
“But you can control a date?”
“Yes. Absolutely. You talk to someone. Get to know them. Figure out what they like. And, obviously, you carefully plan your outfit,” I say.
As we near the small tourist town where he grew up, we pass a wooden sign rising up in the hills, declaring, You’re Entering Darling Springs.
Just like that, I’m thinking of our first date.
Eight years ago, I spent the summer working at the local bookshop in Darling Springs. I’d just graduated from college, and Sawyer had hooked me up with the job since he knew the owner. While there, I used the time to trek along the beach, and try to figure out what I wanted to do with my life and my marketing degree.
One day in August, I bumped into Monroe, Sawyer’s best friend from college. Monroe had just finished medical school and had returned to town to see his father in the few weeks before he left for his residency in New York.
I’d met Monroe once or twice when he’d stopped by the house to pick up Sawyer for nights out during college breaks. But I’d been in high school then and hadn’t paid much heed to my brother’s friends.
We met again by chance one afternoon at The Slippery Dipper, a handmade soap shop on the main drag. I was reaching for the last of the heart-shaped vanilla and honey soap, and he was grabbing the shea butter and rosemary right next to it. I didn’t see him at first, but when our fingers brushed, I jumped back.
Maybe I was startled to meet skin instead of soap, but definitely my fingers buzzed when they touched his. I met his gaze and drank in those blue eyes, the light stubble, the thick brown hair, a little messy on the top, and the playful smile.
Most of all, I noticed his devotion to soap.
He held up the shea butter and rosemary bar. “You can have the last one, Juliet,” he said, offering it to me.
“Oh, I actually wanted the vanilla and honey. I must have reached for the wrong one,” I said, thinking, Chivalry is not dead.
“That’s a good choice too.”
“Thanks. I’ll let the vanilla and honey know.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
We bought our soaps from the friendly and delightfully loud store manager and left together, pausing outside the shop under the awning with its cheeky logo of a woman enjoying a sudsy shower in a claw-foot tub.