Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now…” I dumped the glue packet and the other candy bar on the table, then cracked my knuckles dramatically. “Let’s see what we have here. Please present the patient, Professor.”
“Patient?”
“Yes, we’re about to perform a sensitive operation on your lenses. If you hold the pieces still, I’ll handle the glue.”
Thomas nodded. “All right.”
I tore the package open and read the directions on the bottle, twisting the seal and testing the pour on a napkin. Gross. This stuff was toxic. I’d chosen the outdoor table wisely, but I apologized to the gym rat and his friend-slash-probable-lover for the odor, and promised to be brief before carefully drizzling glue along the edges of broken glass.
I took a quick sip of my latte, wincing when Thomas tried to fit the pieces like a toddler forcing square blocks into a round hole.
“Here. Let me do it.” I took over, pressing the glass into its original, albeit now cracked, form. “This should work. I’ll keep pressure on it till I’m sure it won’t budge. We’ll give it ten minutes to dry to be on the safe side.”
Thomas checked his watch, screwing his features to read it. “I think it’s four thirty-one now. Do you want to set a timer?”
“No, I’ll be able to tell when it’s dry. In the meantime, let’s talk,” I suggested, leaning in to sip my latte through the straw. “I want to know all about you.”
He frowned. “I told you everything while you were cutting my hair. There’s nothing more to add.”
“You’re a professor, a PhD student, your sister is a meanie, your boss is a jerk, and you hate getting your hair cut. To which I surmise the following…you’re crazy smart, you care about your family, but dislike being told what to do.” I waggled my eyebrows playfully. “Am I right?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true, but—” Thomas fussed with his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Excuse me. These are straining my eyes.”
“Leave them off. There’s no sense in giving yourself a headache. Just kick it and chill on this beautiful afternoon. You have chocolate, tea, and me. What could be better?” I teased.
Thomas’s blush was instantaneous and absolutely adorable. He glanced away as if to hide his pink cheeks, giving me a profile view of his chiseled features. Geez. I’d never met anyone so blatantly unaware of his natural hotness. No highlights, no guy-liner, no gloss, no lip filler…just him. No fair.
Some days it took me hours to put myself together, and the results weren’t always spectacular. Well…okay. That was a lie. I might not be Thomas-level dreamy, but I wasn’t a troll. I simply had to try harder.
Back to that blush, though. I might have been totally off base, but I had a feeling his low-grade crush on moi was still in effect. At least he didn’t seem agitated about prolonging our acquaintance anymore. Just a little unsure. I could fix that. I was an expert at small talk. I twirled my tongue around my straw and sipped my latte before launching into Operation Charm.
Except, he beat me to it.
“If we only have another eight minutes, I’d like to ask you a question or two. If you don’t mind.”
“Go for it.”
“Why do you have sports equipment in your vehicle?”
I smiled. “I play soccer.”
He shifted in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand. You don’t look like a jock.”
I set my hand over my heart and gasped in mock dismay. “I don’t?”
Thomas blinked like mad and stumbled over a rambling apology. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It was a compliment, really.”
“Oh, that’s right. You don’t like jocks.”
“No, no. Jocks are…fine. I’m just not a fan of sports or gyms or exercise of any kind. I occasionally use the weights my parents gave me for Christmas, however, I’m inconsistent at best. Funny enough, my family is sporty. I grew up around tennis. I don’t play anymore, though. I’m the only Hartwell who doesn’t regularly hang out on tennis courts, golf courses, or yacht clubs or…” He wrinkled his brow as he mimed swinging a bat-like object. “The one where you hit the ball against a wall and wear goggles and—”
“Racquetball?”
“That’s it.” He grinned and geez, he had a lovely smile.
I somehow quelled the urge to prop my chin on my hands and flutter my lashes like a femme fatale in mid-swoon. I licked my lips instead and briefly glanced away. “Lucky guess. You should try it. It’s fun.”
“No, thank you. I make a concerted effort to avoid boxed-in courts where balls whiz by your head like bullets. And I’ve been known to get seasick in a jacuzzi, so boats are out. But soccer…um, that’s…enjoyable?”
I snickered at his dubious tone. “I think so. I love it. I’ve played since I was a kid. Youth rec leagues, club teams, and in high school. And get this…I even played pro for a while.”