Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Shane opens the door in a fresh white t-shirt that hugs his chest and shorts, long silky ones like basketball players wear. Hair wet, he looks like he recently stepped out of the shower. And if he keeps looking at my mouth with that same intent and focus for much longer, I’m going to need a shower myself.
“Hi, uh, hi. I need to check something. I mean I left something here when I moved out. I mean I left something here by mistake.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion.
Great. I’m doing a great job so far. If he doesn’t get a restraining order on me tonight, I’ll consider myself lucky.
Without a word, he steps aside and lets me in. Then my eyes go wide. I’m embarrassed to say the place is hardly recognizable. For one thing, it’s super clean––clean like it’s never been clean before––and tidy. If you don’t know that those two things are not the same, then you’re as bad at housekeeping as I am.
The drapes have been washed. The floors polished. The furniture rearranged a little. Not even a throw pillow is out of place. It even smells different, a nice mix of detergents, fresh pine, and sandalwood. Very masculine.
“Wow. I don’t know what to say… except, how are you enjoying my home?” I throw a semi-embarrassed smile at him over my shoulder. He doesn’t return one. Nope, that stony façade hasn’t budged.
“Bathroom’s a little tight, but it serves its purpose.” He crosses his arms and his biceps bulge. So do my eyes.
Have mercy. Put those guns away, almost comes out of my mouth. It can’t be helped. The running commentary in my head goes at Mach speed when I’m a little nervous.
In the corner, a guitar rests against the wall. “You play?”
“Hmm,” is all he offers. He must be touchy about his skills, so I drop the topic.
I walk further inside and my attention averts to the open kitchen. It’s sparkling clean. A few new pans sit in a new dish drying rack. All the changes have knocked me off-balance.
“New pans?” He’s still watching me closely, as if I’m a thief casing his property.
“You didn’t have any.”
“I don’t cook.” I walk over to the shelf where my books once lived and all I find are a few of his. Two on the history of war and a biography on General Patton.
“At all?” he sounds genuinely surprised for once. I tear my eyes away from the books to see him rub the scruff on his face. There’s a thin line of hair missing on his chin where he probably had stitches at some point.
“No. I’m no good at it. They should make it a crime actually.”
His eyes do this thing where they turn into chocolate crescents, smiling even though his mouth remains at rest. “You can’t be that bad.”
“I am. Don’t ever eat my cooking unless you’d like an enema free of charge.” Then I catch my mistake. “Not that I’m offering to cook for you.” That didn’t sound right either. “I mean… it’s a joke, never mind.” I think I almost see his mouth curve up a little, but I may have imagined it. “What do you do? For a living, I mean. Or do you work for your brother?” I open the drawer of the side table next to the couch. Nothing there either. It may be time to panic.
“I’m a writer…” He runs his fingers through his hair and mumbles, “At least, I try to be. Haven’t done much of it lately.”
“Writer’s block?”
He nods.
I feel for him. Growing up in L.A., I’ve known more failed writers and actors than I care to. The entertainment industry beats a person down. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. If I had any enemies, I mean.
“That’s a tough business…” I muse out loud. Dropping to all fours, I look under the couch and find the absence of my book and the dust bunnies that once lived long, happy lives under there until Mr. Clean moved in.
“But you can’t give up if you really love it. Just keep plugging away and one day you’ll get your shot. My cousin wanted to be a director and he did it. Took ten years and a bankruptcy, but he’s doing commercials now.” Then it dawns on me. “Hey, maybe your brother can help.”
I look up and find his gaze directed over my head, avoiding eye contact. Shit, maybe he’s touchy about it.
“Maybe,” he says. His glances back down and gives me a funny look. Maybe I overstepped again. It’s not like they’re very close. Or maybe it’s a brotherly rivalry. One super successful and the other scraping by. I should just shut up now. I can’t do anything right with this guy.
I stand and brush my hands on my shorts. It’s actually a small house. One bedroom. One bathroom. One large living area with an open kitchen. There’s only one place left to search.