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)
But nope. He’s still strong, sturdy, unflappable, and unknowable Monroe.
I can’t even be annoyed about his inaccessibility since he’s been honest with me every step of the way. He was truthful eight years ago. He never led me on. He always had said it could only be a brief summer fling. He didn’t ask me to wait for him after residency.
I would have said yes if he’d asked. Instead, I sucked down all my silly feelings, and said breezily it’s no big deal.
He was honest with me this morning too. He’s not interested in big love. My throat tightens once more, then my eyes sting with the threat of tears. I hunt around for a tissue. Would it kill him to have a tissue in the car? I slide open the console in case there’s one.
But there’s just…a photo.
My gut twists with guilt. I’m not even snooping, but this feels like real snooping as I stare at a sepia-tinted photo of a tree from years ago.
Maybe even decades.
It’s a maple, standing tall and proud in a backyard. He mentioned a tree house at dinner the other night when I asked about his mom. Is this the tree she built the tree house in? It reminds me so much of the ink on his forearm. Emotion grips me harder and faster. I don’t even touch the photo. It’s private and personal and so not for me that I slam the console shut, draw a deep breath, and suck in my tears. I dab at my eyes with a pink feather, drying them. Then I rush out of the car, understanding he’s not so impervious after all.
And somehow feeling like I know him just a little bit better.
I go inside, blinking off the final remnants of tears that I have no right to feel, and head to the paint aisle. After I snag the remaining items, I make my way to the checkout, but an endcap of hammers catches my attention.
I turn down the aisle next to it. Is there truly an entire aisle devoted to pounding? Why on earth does humankind need so many different hammers? Claw hammers and ball peens and sledgehammers. There are hammers from drop-forged alloy steel, and then this hammer that boasts that it’s ultra-comfortable, and this one that brags about its durability. The variety is so staggering that I need to take a picture for my girlies. I grab my phone and snap a shot when a man reaches past me for a hammer with a tiny poundy part.
“Oh, excuse me,” I say, even though he kind of got in my way. But it can’t hurt to be polite.
When I step back, I nearly lose my footing.
It’s the real Jared. He looks exactly like his photo—dark hair, perfectly coiffed. A straight nose. And he’s wearing, you guessed it, a suit.
He’s looking right at me. Or maybe at my feather boa? Nope. He’s staring at my tits. Well, they are fantastic.
“Hey there,” he says, and do I detect a bit of wolfishness in the hey there?
I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just leaning into Monroe’s interpretation of him. “Who knew the world needed so many hammers,” I say, keeping my reply friendly rather than flirty.
His lips quirk up on one side, a little smirky smirk. “Well, hammering is fun.”
Oh no, he didn’t say that. But yes, he did. “I guess humanity has a hammering fetish,” I say because really? Really?
Now I have to know if he’s truly the guy Monroe played him to be.
“Well, yeah. Pounding and nailing are fun,” he says.
And it’s looking like Monroe was righter than right. To be sure, I reach for a little hammer and then improvise. “I like this one. I have some…deals to work on today. Some hammering deals. I think I can use this one to…nail them.”
His grin spreads up, up, and away. “Speaking of deals, would you want to grab a drink? And maybe see how things go? No pressure. Just so you know I’m totally into slow dating lately,” he says.
It takes all my self-control not to burst into laughter. “Thanks, but I have another deal to nail down.”
I spin around, snickering over how the real Jared is a dick in exactly the ways Monroe predicted. This is both awful and reassuring.
My phone buzzes as I leave the store, and my heart does the tiny poundy thing, hoping that it’s Monroe. But it’s Mom, and she wants to know if I can meet her at Second Time Around to help find the right outfit for her date.
20
THINGS I WISH I KNEW
Juliet
In the corner of the store, Mom picks a pretty dark purple blouse and holds it up. “Perfect for an art gallery date?”
“It is,” I say.
“Good. Now I need something for mini golf.” Because of course she’s going on a mini golf date. As she hunts through a rack, she asks, “How are your dates going?”