Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“You look stylish, smart, cool.”
“Oh!” His eyebrows lift. They’re a little bushy, but I’m in no place to nitpick.
I’ve grown a full beard out of sheer laziness.
“Fly is good.”
I nod. “Fly is good.”
He grabs his suit jacket and his keys. “Don’t wait up for me.” He winks.
“Tell Mom, ‘hi.’”
“Will do.”
After depositing my pile of plates into the dishwasher, I opt for a shower. My dad and I have swapped places. Well, almost. I’m not crying over internet porn.
However, I’m nursing a broken heart that hurts like a son of a bitch. I’ve typed so many messages and composed a dozen or so emails. Hell, I’ve purchased handmade paper and a fucking feather pen, thinking it might win me big points if Anna loves historical romance. It didn’t look like a love letter; it looked like a two-year-old’s finger painting. My hands are still stained black.
I’ve thought about sending her daily bouquets without petals, but that’s nothing new. My reading has led me to believe she thinks I should have made a trip to Nashville to beat the shit out of Shaun before carrying her off to the bedroom, ordering her to get on her knees and “take every inch” while gathering her hair in my hand and calling her my “good little girl.”
Or …
I tie her to the bed (which I’ve suggested) and declare my intention to own “every hole.” I can’t read that without laughing, so I’m not confident in my ability to “alpha male” her in that way.
I do know that I can’t do the “daddy” thing. Her dad’s alive. I fear that could get weird.
So I’m left with the most fundamental lesson to be learned from romance novels.
I’ll get to that.
First, I must trim my beard, wash off this self-pity, and get to the bouldering gym. The perfect mating dance takes practice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Anna
I love my job.
I hate my life.
It’s complicated.
“Do you have to leave?” I give my mom and dad my best pouty face.
Mom presses her hands to my face. “We’ve been here two weeks. You’re settled. You have a great job. A charming apartment. And minoring in Spanish is officially paying off.” She kisses my forehead. “As much as I’m going to miss seeing you every few months, I feel like everything has fallen into place for you. Enjoy it, honey. I think there’s a lot of exciting things coming your way.”
I sigh, forcing my lips into an agreeable smile. “I know.”
“Don’t get mugged or raped, and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Dad. Wise words.” I roll my eyes, and so does my mom.
“If you fall in love, I want to know before you announce your engagement. Don’t keep us in the dark.” Mom hikes her handbag onto her shoulder.
“Don’t get knocked up either.” Dad slides in with the feel-good, follow-up suggestion.
“Wow. It’s like you guys don’t want me to have any fun.” I find a genuine smile.
“Our ride’s here.” Dad jerks his head toward the window.
They give me one last hug, and I hold it together. It’s weird how that ocean makes a big difference. I went months without seeing them, but I knew they were always a quick flight or day’s drive away from me.
My heart feels extra stretched as they walk out my door. I already feel a terrible case of homesickness getting ready to set in. It’s time to immerse myself in work, force myself to get out, and spend as little time alone as possible. When I take a break to catch my breath, I think of Eric, and everything hurts.
Over the next few weeks, I move forward without so much as a glance back. Momentum is all I have; I’ve convinced myself it’s enough.
But … yeah, I still think of Eric and wonder if I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I dive into my favorite coping strategy. Opening a Word document, I start at the beginning.
To everyone who doesn’t believe in global warming, suck it! That smell? It’s my skin burning. I bet it resembles a hog roast. Someone, please give me a quarter turn.
Des Moines, Iowa, is not immune to summer heat. Still, ninety-seven degrees on the second day of June feels like Satan has come for Midwesterners first—surprising since everyone knows Las Vegas should be his priority.
I swipe my arm across my sweaty forehead and guide my bicycle into the entry of my apartment building in East Village—a quaint neighborhood of bars, shops, and modern-industrial apartments nestled between the capitol and downtown.
“Dear god … yes.” I stop and close my eyes, letting the cool air extinguish my skin. “Yes … yes … yes …” I moan, stretching the neck of my drenched, fitted tee to wipe more sweat from my face. When I open my eyes, a new face greets me, the corner of his mouth angled to show his amusement. I shoot him a tight smile. “It’s really hot outside.”