Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
He shifts again. I’m not surprised he can’t get comfortable. He’s a big guy, and these chairs were made for earthly beings, not otherworldly rock gods of his stature. Resting his head back on the wall, he slips a slow grin onto his face. It’s not big and showy, but it feels personal. “You’re probably right.”
Neither of us rushes to look away, but I finally blink, breaking the connection, which allows me to breathe again. It was almost easy to forget why we’re here in the first place, but when the next number is called, I’m reminded. “Did you get a number?”
Holding up a slip of paper, he replies, “Eighty-three.”
I glance up at the lighted board on the wall, then sag into my chair again since it will be a while. “Thirteen?” Glancing back at him, I add, “We’re going to be here all day.”
“Fourteen?” someone calls out from a distance.
He says, “It won’t be so bad. We have each other to keep us company.”
I’m kept guessing when it comes to him. He’s arrogant and impulsive with his words, pushes my buttons—I’m thinking on purpose—but also can be a total gentleman, a good listener, puts me first, especially when he goes and says the sweetest things like that. My heart stops guarding the gate around him. “We do.”
Two hours later . . .
“Fifty-two?”
“Come onnn.” I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands. “I can’t take this.”
Touching my arm with a little rub of the exposed skin of my elbow, he stands. “I’ll be right back.”
Fortunately, I had rearranged my days, moving my visit to Beacon’s Point Retirement Center to Friday, but I still had hoped to catch up on some paperwork at the office today. It’s not looking likely by how slow the line is moving.
I’d been staring at my shoes, bored out of my mind instead of watching where Shane had disappeared when he reappears. I look up, sitting straighter. “Where’d you go?”
“Working my magic.” His composed tone reassures me even with the nonspecific answer. Stressing sure wasn’t helping, so this is a nice change. Though it’s interesting to find comfort in a man I barely know simply because we joined forces on the same mission. Life is fascinating like that.
One day, I’m working with my patients.
The next day, I’m sitting in a lobby with a world-famous musician, waiting to get a divorce. A lot of steps were skipped between the two, but here we are, working together.
His sunglasses hide his eyes, so when he sits, I lean in closer to ask, “Hiding so you don’t get recognized?”
“Something like that.” He chuckles. “Sometimes I feel . . . normal again, having forgotten myself for a bit.”
“Forgotten you’re famous?”
Shane seems to ponder the question, mulling it over as he scrapes his teeth across the top of his bottom lip. “Yes,” he whispers as if there’s shame built in that he’s come to accept. “Maybe not so much forgotten than remembering what it’s like to be in public and not have anyone give a shit about me.” He pulls the glasses off and eyes me out of the corner of his eye. “I’d pay to feel normal for an entire day.”
I’m not sure what to say to that; the sentiment is not something I comprehend, but I reach over and cover the top of his hand with mine. I don’t hold it. I’m just here for him.
He doesn’t move his hand or pull away like I’ve crossed a line. We sit quietly together in the silence of the statement until another few numbers are called. It’s strange how content I feel. This doesn’t feel awkward but natural with him.
I slide my hand back to my denim-clad legs with a quick swipe of my palms down my thighs. Not to keep us suspended in whatever that was, I ask, “Are you really not going to tell me where you were?”
The clerk calls out, “Fifty-three?”
Standing, he lifts my arm by the elbow and takes me with him. “That’s us.”
“No, we’re—”
“Fifty-three,” he says, flipping a piece of paper up with that number on it and grinning like he got away with something he shouldn’t have.
“You got someone to trade with you?”
“I don’t want to make you an accomplice, so let’s just leave it at I worked my magic.”
Laughing softly, I say, “This is one of those perks of being famous I’ve always heard about, and I’m not complaining.”
His hand slips around my lower back, and he whispers from behind my ear, “It’s showtime.”
A laugh bellows from my gut, the release feeling too good to use my inside voice. We slide up to the window like Bonnie and Clyde, ready to sweet-talk a cashier into handing over the money. Despite what I prefer, I put some space between us, a little pocket of air so our body language isn’t misinterpreted. He rests on his arm, and says, “Hello, Roberta.”