Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
He laughs again, shakes his head, and grumbles, “These were the only extra pillows I could fucking find last night.”
“I’ll show you where I keep the spares.” I hit the button and rest my ass against the edge of the counter while facing him. “You got clothes for work?”
A short cringe precedes a guilty retort, “No.”
“I’ll show you where I keep the spare sweats.” Sounds of brewing coffee echo behind me. “I’m sure I’ve got at least a pair or two in your size to get you started.”
Brendan’s typically cheerful demeanor doesn’t hesitate to diminish. “I don’t wanna wear some ex-fuckboy’s leftover shit, Harlow. I’d rather freeze my nuts off for eight hours.”
Intrigued by his unexpected jealousy plants a crooked grin on my face and comfort in my voice. “It’s actually leftover merch from a few seasons ago. Shit they couldn’t move or was too damaged to sell that they give to us to give away to friends, family, youth who can’t afford for their parents to buy it. That type of thing.”
Embarrassment slightly tints his cheeks on a whispered, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” I casually collect the mug and head for the fridge. “You’ll be the first fuckboy who wears them, just like you’re the first fuckboy who’s stayed in the guesthouse.” The teasing smirk he’s thrown is greeted by a small chuckle. “Now, do you want milk or cream or Baileys in your shit?”
“However, you make it, I’ll drink it.”
Busying myself with making the drink as though I’m making it’s for me is attached to a very important announcement. “I’m gonna show you where to find the sweats and then we leave in fifteen.” All my actions are focused on the beverage, yet all my words his direction. “If you’re ready at sixteen, you’re gonna be chasing my taillights for at least a block before I pull over.”
Light chuckles escape indicating he doesn’t believe me.
He will.
Time discipline was some shit Dad took very seriously.
It’s why getting up for school was never a bitch to me.
I’d been living that fucking schedule since I learned my shapes and colors.
“Is that um…Is that what you’re wearing to the office today?” he cautiously asks as he accepts the toasty offering.
“No, I’ve got a few personal matters to tend to, including my first OBGYN appointment.”
“Can I come?”
His lack of reluctance in asking causes flutters to flounce around the pit of my stomach. “Next time.” Nervously tugging on the ends of my navy sleeves happens in unison with confessing, “I…I kind of wanna do this part alone.”
“Okay,” Brendan quietly concedes, “but I wanna be there for everything you’ll let me be there for.”
I bashfully nod, tuck a loose piece of hair behind my industrial pierced ear, and encourage him to give me some much-needed space. “Why don’t you head back to your place? Put on some boxers?” We both airily snicker. “I’ll pop by after I’ve made my own cup.”
It’s his turn to nod his comprehension. “Thanks for the coffee, Harlow. Making tomorrow’s batch is on me.”
Softly smiling is mindlessly done alongside looking away to give him a bit of privacy to slink back out of my house.
Once the door is shut, I cross over, lock it, and let my back hit it on a heavy sigh.
Okay.
Maybe this is a little insane.
But maybe for the first time in my life it’s the right type of insane.
I’ve got ninety days to figure it out and something tells me I’m going to need every last one of them.
Brendan
How does a person lose just one shoe?
In their own fucking room!
Alright, so it’s not “my room” but it is my room. I mean…at least for the next few months during what feels like a fucking Mission Impossible task to convince the most incredible woman I’ve ever met that I am good enough not only to have around in her life but our son or daughter’s, too.
How I’m going to do this I have no goddamn clue.
Just like I have no clue where the fuck my other kick went.
“Brendan,” my mom’s voice booms through the room’s Bluetooth speaker, pulling me away from where I’ve been digging underneath the bed, back onto my feet so she can see me in the camera. “Tell me you’re listening to me.”
“I hear you,” I mutter, eyes scouting the scene for the missing culprit.
I can’t go to work wearing only one shoe.
And calling in sick because I only have one shoe sounds equally as crazy as being late because I couldn’t find the damn thing.
Seriously.
How does something like that vanish into thin air?
“Do I need to fly down to Texas?”
Only if she’s coming to help me find my fucking shoe.
“I’m worried.”
Abandoning her at the start of what I know is going to be another argument is easy.
And I know it’s going to be another argument because every time we’ve talked for the past week that’s what it’s been.