Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Fuck you?”
I grin at the casual way he throws the words out there, not giving a shit who hears us or what they think. “Yes. Like I said, I need you to teach me all the things. Doing those things is a lot of fun.”
“And you don’t have nearly enough of that.” His eyes flick up to meet mine as he ducks his head to take a bite of omelet. “Why don’t you? Have more fun? I know you’re busy with the bakery. But busy is different than overwhelmed.”
“I’m definitely overwhelmed.” I curl my hands around my coffee mug, the heat making my palms sting. “Half the time I feel like I’m drowning.”
He keeps looking at me. “Probably because you’re not refilling your proverbial cup. Bucket. Whatever the fuck they’re calling it these days.”
I laugh again, holding up my mug. “Yes. Pouring from an empty cup feels especially apt in my case. I’m too worried about overwhelming everyone else if I’m not, you know, pulling my weight or whatever.”
“You’re not getting what you need.”
“I am now.” I look at him meaningfully.
He blinks. “I’m doing my job, then. But only because you’re doing yours by asking for what you want.”
“And that requires knowing what I want. I don’t know which part is harder. Pun not intended. Actually, no, pun definitely intended.”
He smiles again, and my heart takes a swan dive into my stomach. He’s so handsome when he’s happy like this.
It’s bewildering and lovely, seeing how happy he is, just by being with me. Makes me feel like I’m . . . all right, as is. Just being myself at the breakfast table. I don’t have to work to earn his friendship or his trust or his smile. He just gives it, freely, because I’m here. Taking up the space I was taught belonged to everyone but me.
“You know,” I continue, “you’re actually teaching me about more than just the, ahem, naked stuff.”
“So you’re not using me for my body, then?”
“Oh, I’m definitely using you for your body.” I make a show of leaning to the side to check him out. “But stay with me as I try to explain this. It’s like . . .” I straighten and twirl my wrist, reaching for the right words. “I’m learning about my needs because I’m unlearning what I’ve been told to believe about myself. Namely that I’m not important.”
Brooks frowns. “Why would you think that?”
I lift a shoulder. “Second child syndrome, maybe? Being a woman? Who knows. George was the oldest, and he was the good-looking athlete who made his million and a half friends laugh all the time. I didn’t know where I fit in. Was I the creative one? The smart one? I never felt like I was particularly smart or funny or pretty.”
“But you are all those things.”
I meet his eyes. “Does it matter if you don’t feel like you are?”
“Fair point.”
“So I made up for it by working hard. I was never going to be the prettiest, most fun person in the room, but I was going to be the one who worked the hardest. Which served me in a lot of areas of life. My parents—they’ve always been so proud of me. But now I’m starting to see how that backfired. I’m starting to see . . . hell, that working the way I do shows I don’t think I’m lovable unless I’m constantly busting my ass.”
“That your worthiness as a person depends on you being the person. The one who always has her shit together and can do all the things for all the people.”
Blinking, I scoff. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it exactly. Disappointing anyone is, like, the worst feeling ever for me. And that means I’m not allowed to rest. I’m not allowed to have fun, or think about how I’m putting myself on the back burner while looking after everyone else . . .” I swallow and look away, surprised by the sudden deluge of emotion I feel. “It’s really mean when I think about it, how I ignore my own needs and wants. But the way you treat me—it feels so, so nice, Brooks. I want to learn how to like myself the way you like me.”
Brooks sets down his fork and reaches for my hand. He twines his fingers around mine, the way he did in bed. And just like it did then, my pulse flutters, the fullness inside me becoming almost unbearable. “Are you saying I’m killing you with kindness?”
I burst out laughing. The sudden shift in feeling from low to high is exhilarating. A rise and fall all at once, gravity tugging at my feet while everything in my chest soars.
Not only does this man get it. He also makes me laugh. The combination is, dare I say it, deadly.
“We have to stop with the puns.” I wipe the happy tears from my eyes.