Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Still thinking about Cole, I flip the chicken breasts I’m studiously watching. I’m not a great chef. Gordon Ramsey is certainly never gonna invite me to prepare dinner for him unless it’s to star in Kitchen Nightmares. But I’ve never given anyone food poisoning either, so I’d say I’m right in the middle of semi-decent in the kitchen. Mostly.
I check the clock, both to make sure the chicken has had ample time to reach a safe temperature—gotta protect that no poisoning record!—and because Henry should be here by six o’clock.
After stashing my hopefully-perfectly-cooked chicken in the microwave to stay warm, I glance out the window over the sink. The forest is beginning to darken, and Henry needs to be through the awkward and dangerous drive to the cabin while the sun is still up. Plus, Cole’s supposed to come in for a shower and be gone before Henry’s arrival. I feel guilty about kicking him to the curb, a.k.a. his truck, for the night, but I don’t think Henry will want to share space on what’s left of our romantic getaway, and the bedroom loft isn’t exactly private.
Stepping out to the back porch, I give the hot tub a long, regretful look. I had such great plans for it but haven’t been able to use it with the poison ivy rash, which I’m a bit salty about, but it’s my own fault. I prepared for bears but not greenery that could ruin everything.
Or unexpected house guests who would tempt me into the unknown wilds of the forest.
Nope, not thinking about Cole. Or his eyes and fingers roving over my back, drawing heat to places that had nothing to do with an allergic reaction. I’m focusing strictly on the poison ivy rash and that’s it. Yep, that’s it.
Hopefully, Henry doesn’t mind my patchy irritation. The calamine lotion is working, but it’s not a quick fix.
I sink onto a porch chair, wrapping a blanket around me and gathering it beneath my chin to call him on speakerphone. It’s not that chilly, but worry is pooling in my belly because Henry should be here by now.
“Hello?”
“Hey! Just checking in to see how close you are. The last bit of the drive to the cabin is pretty sketchy, and definitely something that should be done during daylight hours, so hopefully, you’re almost—”
He cuts me off abruptly, blurting out, “I’m not coming.”
“What?” I say in confusion. “Did you work late and decide to come tomorrow instead?” That’s so like him. Work, work, work, and lose track of everything other than the issue immediately in front of him. It’s sort of cute, if annoying at times. Like these times.
“At all.” His tone is flat and cold.
“What do you mean? Is the project not going well?” It’s the only thing I can think of. Henry is basically a workaholic, and his work ethic is a good thing. Usually.
“Look, Janey . . . you’re uhm . . . great, but I’m super swamped and need to prioritize my own growth trajectory. You understand that. And you’re—”
I inhale sharply. “You don’t mean the vacation, do you? Are you . . .” Realization hits me like a wrecking ball. “Are you breaking up with me? For work?”
My stomach is somewhere in my ass right now. My nursing professors would say that’s not medically possible, but it’s exactly what I feel like at this moment.
“No, no. It’s not that. I just . . . you, me, we’re not . . .” He groans and moves around, and I hear the tell-tale squeak of the couch in his apartment. He’s not at the office. He’s at home, reclining back on the left-end chaise where he always sits, even though he knows I like the spot in the L-shaped corner where I can curl up by the window.
I’m not stupid. And I have experience reading between the lines to hear what he’s not saying. He never intended on coming, but he let me believe he was. He let me cook him a romantic–and definitely not poisoned–dinner and worry about his drive while he was chilling at home. He let me tell my whole family that he was coming to the wedding, knowing he wasn’t gonna come.
He’s stuttering through something about it not being our time yet, but I’m only half listening, too caught up in the swirling tornado in my mind of ‘no, no, no’ coupled with a high-pitched squealing noise.
“What are you talking about?” I ask when I realize I haven’t heard most of what he’s said. He laughs, actually snorts like that’s funny, and I’m confused for a second until it clicks. He’s laughing because that’s what he always comments when I go on a rambling tangent and he checks out mentally. Guess the shoe’s on the other foot this time. It doesn’t feel any better on this side.