Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Tragic local legends? I’m intrigued.”
“I’ll tell you the tale over dinner,” she says. “And you’re welcome to sleep on the third floor if you want. The legend is tragic, but it’s almost two hundred years old, so…”
“Nah, I’ll be good here.” I motion toward the full bed beneath a window overlooking the churning sea. “I’ve done enough puppy wrestling today. I don’t have the energy for the third floor.”
“Good call. It can get loud up there in the rain,” she says, her clever eyes dancing in a way that makes me want to kiss her.
But everything this woman does makes me want to kiss her. It’s a strange and unsettling state of affairs. I haven’t felt this kind of pull toward someone in years.
Maybe…ever.
“I’ll leave you to get settled and grab a shower. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall you can use. I’ll use the one by the rec room.” She moves toward the door but lingers for a beat. “Calzone still sound good?”
“Yes, but I’m paying. It’s the least I can do to thank you for the rescue and putting us up for the night.”
She grins. “All right. I’ll order a calzone, salad, and extra breadsticks before I shower. Pepperoni and mushroom filling okay with you?”
“Perfect,” I say as she leaves, telling myself the fact that we like the same kind of calzone isn’t a sign that flirting with her is okay. Everyone likes pepperoni. Mushrooms are a more niche choice, but still fairly common. If I’m looking for signs, this isn’t it.
And I shouldn’t be looking for signs.
I’m on a volunteer mission of mercy. This weekend is supposed to be about me, the dogs, and some time alone in the sky to take a hard look at what I want from the next stage of my life. I’m almost forty. I love my job and the company I’ve built. I love that I’ve gone part time and can be out in nature almost every day even more. But it still feels like there’s something missing. When I lay down alone at night, I’m haunted by a longing for something I can’t quite put my finger on.
But I have a feeling it might have something to do with how much I’m looking forward to sharing dinner with Sydney tonight…
I unpack my small backpack into the empty chest of drawers and grab jeans and a sweater to change into after my shower. The bathroom is as small as the guest rooms, but the water heats up nicely, and I’m so grateful not to be in soggy clothes, I couldn’t have enjoyed the shower more if it were in a suite at The Ritz.
When I’m dressed, I head back into the kitchen to find Sydney still in her damp sweater with a lobster on the front, her phone in hand.
“I’m sorry.” I move to face her across the small island. “Did I use up all the hot water?”
She shakes her head. “No, not at all. The pizza place is closed because of the storm, so I started calling other places, thinking we could go pick something up, but…everything’s closed.” She wrinkles her nose my way. “I was just about to try the Thai Mexican fusion place one town over, but their food is an acquired taste, and it’s about a twenty-minute drive.”
I wave an easy hand. “Don’t worry about it. I can whip something up for us here.”
Her brows lift. “Are you sure? I don’t have much in the fridge or the pantry. I’m leaving in ten days, so I’ve been trying not to buy too many groceries.”
I reach for the fridge handle, pulling it open to see a head of cauliflower, some spinach, and the remnants of a few different cheeses. There are also a couple of apples, oat milk, an old lemon, and a bottle of balsamic salad dressing. “You have rice or pasta?” I ask, pondering the ingredients for a beat before I shut the door.
“Both,” she says, motioning toward the cabinet in the corner. “In the lazy Susan, by the sweet potatoes.”
“Great.” I grin. “I’ve got dinner covered, then. Go take a shower and warm up. I’ll get the rice started.”
She shoots me a quizzical look. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” I say, laughing as she continues to study me like a virus she’s spotted under a microscope. “What? You doubt my cooking skills?”
“I’ve never known a man who could cook. My father is hopeless in the kitchen, and my guy friends’ culinary skills extend to boiling water for ramen noodles.”
I huff. “You’ve been hanging around the wrong men.”
“Clearly,” she says in a lilting voice that makes me wonder if she feels it, too, this connection, this potential between us. She clears her throat. “Speaking of men, I should check on the furry boys. They’re being way too quiet.”