Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I’m starving.” I indicated a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant across the street. “That’s Alvin’s. They make the best breakfast sandwich in town. Would you come have breakfast with me?” When she hesitated, I said the one thing I already knew she couldn’t resist. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out how much of a caregiver this woman was, and I took advantage of her giving nature. “I don’t think I can get there and back on my own.”
She unclipped her seat belt. “Of course. I could use something to eat, too.”
She slipped an arm around my waist, and we walked across the street slowly. I liked how it felt having her close, even if she was acting like a nurse. It was early, so Al wasn’t busy yet, and we grabbed a table at the back. I leaned forward conspiratorially. “I recommend the sandwich, but I would stay clear of the coffee. You may be awake for days.”
“Good to know.”
She only ordered toast, nibbling on it while I devoured two thick bacon sandwiches and some hash browns. She lifted her eyebrows at my full plate. “It’s feed a cold, not a concussion.”
God, she was cute. And funny. I arched my eyebrow back at her. “Bacon fixes everything. It’s a fact.”
“Hmm. I’ll have to consult some other medical professionals. I don’t think that’s a well-known fact around the hospital.”
I smiled, taking another large bite. After her playful remarks, we were mostly silent, but I found the quiet soothing. I didn’t feel the need to fill in the silence with inane chatter, and Ally didn’t seem to be the type to need it either. It was a trait I found refreshing, and I enjoyed her peaceful companionship—especially given the fact that my brain felt sluggish.
After I paid the bill, we went back across the street to the door of my building. We had an awkward moment when she stopped, and I saw she was unsure of what to do.
“If you could just help me upstairs, I’d appreciate it.” I wanted to spend more time with her and talk. Not as caregiver and patient, but two people getting to know each other.
Once inside, she took in the expansive space I lived in. I looked around, knowing what she was seeing, and for the first time, I wished the space were different.
The loft was large and open; it was also utterly bleak. In one corner was my bed. The huge, plush mattress set was comfortable enough, but I had never bothered buying a bed frame, so it just sat on the floor, the sheets rumpled and messy. A makeshift cupboard was shoved against the wall, the door open, a towel draped over it, hardly any clothes inside. On the floor was my sizable duffel bag I used when traveling, which also served as a dresser for me.
A single chair sat in the middle of the room, an ottoman in front with a small table and lamp beside it.
The kitchen ran against the far wall, a tall, polished cement counter separating the areas. One hard wooden stool was tucked under the edge.
The opposite corner was my work area. A huge glass-topped desk with a variety of computer monitors sat along one wall. Large steel shelves held my equipment, and a fireproof safe kept my work protected. A tall display case exhibited a few items and my older cameras—ones that held sentimental value to me. They had belonged to my mother and were some of the few things I had that meant something to me.
The entire space was stark and empty. There was nothing personal in the loft—no pictures or knickknacks anywhere. There was a flat-screen TV and a set of Sonos wireless speakers for my music—the one thing I was passionate about besides photography. The walls were either rough brick or plain concrete, the ceiling open with exposed beams and lots of light coming in from the skylights and the huge windows that graced two of the walls. It was a place to sleep, to work, and be alone.
She was quiet as we walked over to the lone chair, and she gently nudged me down into the seat. “Did they give you some painkillers?”
“No. I told them I didn’t need any.”
“Of course you did,” she replied sarcastically.
“But I do have some in the cabinet from my last, ah, mishap. I didn’t use many, so I’ll take them if needed.”
She stood over me with a sigh of frustration. “Adam, using painkillers is not a sign of weakness. By staying ahead of your pain, that helps you to heal faster. Stop being so stubborn.”
She was rather sexy with her hand on her hip as she lectured me. I gave in since her words did make sense.
“Okay.”
“I’ll get them.”
I pointed to the door. “They’re in the bathroom.”