Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I looked down at my watch and saw that it was nearly the end of my shift. Finally. Mercifully. “You two stay safe,” I said, giving them a nod. “And remember to keep the intense scenes inside.”
“Thank you for trying to help us,” one of them called after me as I walked away.
I was way too exhausted for this shit.
Twenty minutes later, I was in the parking lot of Red’s Tavern again.
This time my truck had been on autopilot, the wheels taking me here before I could think of anywhere else to go. I wished I could say it was because of the two cute theater students, but I knew the truth.
I was hoping he’d be here again.
I was hoping I could at least catch a glimpse of a guy who was way, way out of my league.
My heart was already thumping in my chest the same way it did every time I had come around here recently. I shifted into park and cut the engine, pulling in a long breath.
Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, checking my texts.
>>Mom: Today on The Chicken Files, Daisy flirts with Cheerio, the neighborhood cat! You’ve got to help me reinforce the coop this Sunday, LOL! I think they might be “frenemies.”
Attached was a photo of an orange cat sticking its paw into my mom’s chicken coop, and one of the hens, Daisy, looking very interested in her new friend.
>>Roman: We’ve got this. I’m sure we can put one of the two-by-fours there, and Cheerio won’t be able to mess with the girls any longer. Looking forward to seeing you Sunday. Xo.
This was what passed for intrigue in my life, these days.
I navigated over to my texts with Theo, ready to read them for what must have been the tenth time that day.
My heart lurched up to my throat when I saw the thread.
Holy shit.
The text from earlier, the one I’d never meant to send, had apparently gotten shot off to him.
I want to taste you in other places, too.
God damn it. When I’d shoved my phone into my pocket to go assess the shouting on campus, I must have accidentally sent it.
“Fuck,” I groaned, holding the phone like it was something burning hot.
Theo had already seemed wary of strangers, and he’d been drunk as hell. I had no idea how he might react to that kind of text when he was sober and clear-headed.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw somebody walking through the parking lot, and when I glanced up I saw it was Sam, walking toward the tavern for the start of his shift. He waved, meandering over to my open driver’s side window.
“Back again,” he said, grinning at me. His tank top said Just The Tip (Jar). “What’s up? Last night was insane. Dude, I couldn’t believe he came into the bar.”
“He was wasted. I got him home safe.”
“You’re amazing, Roman,” Sam said.
“Just common decency,” I said, frowning back at my phone again.
“Everything okay?”
“Well, I just realized I sent an awful text to a stranger, and I haven’t gotten a response, so I’m feeling like a goddamn idiot.”
“Oh, shit, I love a good risky text,” Sam said. “What did it say?”
I showed him and his eyes went wide as he smiled.
“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s great! That’s totally tame,” Sam said. “She’ll love it.”
I bit my lip. He was assuming that the text was to a woman, but at the moment, I didn’t correct him.
“You think that’s tame? Christ.”
He waved a hand. “Don’t sweat it, Roman. She’ll write back. And if she doesn’t, she’s losing out on a great fucking guy.”
I nodded once. “Good luck on your shift,” I said. “I think I’m going to head home, actually.”
He gave me a little salute. “Good luck!”
I sighed, sitting back in my driver's seat, wishing to God that I hadn’t accidentally sent it. My fingers instinctively reached for the tiny little crochet turtle I kept in my pocket, pulling it out and fiddling with it. It was my little good-luck charm. Something I messed with whenever I needed to clear my head. Mom had gotten into crochet a few years back, and the turtle had been one of her first projects. My childhood nickname had been Turtle, which Mom still called me sometimes, even if my younger brother Brody had long since forgotten about it.
“A little silly for a big guy like you, but I just thought it was so freakin’ cute,” Mom had said when she’d given me the crochet turtle, which was only a little bigger than two of my fingertips. “I don’t know, maybe you can keep it in a drawer, or something.”
“Fuck that,” I had said, in awe of how small and precise the crochet stitches were. “I’m keeping this little guy with me. Everywhere I go. And I’m naming him Bruce Lee.”