Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“We could go down to the beach?” I offered.
“I kind of want to hike.”
“Oh, that could be fun!”
Then BAM.
“What if you moved out of your dorm?”
I glanced over at him with big round eyes.
“I’ll be homeless then,” I said, dumb as a rock.
Cole smiled a crooked little smile. “You’ll be moving in with me . . .”
I’m not sure if he meant for me to move in that day, but I did. We turned right around on that pebble path and headed back to my dorm so we could pack it up. I don’t have all that much, actually. I’ve always been a lady of few items. My clothes fit into a big duffel. My miscellaneous junk filled a few boxes. Then Cole borrowed one of the resort’s golf carts and we hauled everything to his place in two easy trips.
I became the second toothbrush in his bathroom, the soft pink pillow on his otherwise blue-and-white bed, the misshapen ceramic mug on his kitchen shelves.
He was the one to suggest that we hang my mom’s series of photos over the couch in the living room, and we FaceTimed my parents to show them the setup once we were done.
“I love it!” my mom exclaimed. Then she asked more seriously, “So it’s officially official?”
“I know it’s fast . . . ,” I started, worried my parents were going to warn me away from acting rashly. Moving in with someone is a big step; I understand that.
I expected a lot of things: a reproachful frown, a drawn-out warning about taking things slow, possibly even a horribly belated birds-and-bees speech. Sweetie, sometimes when a man loves a woman . . . they touch . . . intimately.
My mom did the exact opposite. She guffawed. “Are you kidding?! If I had to listen to you talk about Cole, complain about Cole, wax poetic about Cole for one more minute, I was going to lose it. For the last six months it’s all you brought up.”
Oh dear god.
“It was endless, truly. I thought we were going to have to come there and sort it out ourselves—”
I clamored for my phone.
“Sorry! Mom?!” I made sure to speak very loudly over her. “Mom?! Weird. You’re cutting out!”
“Paige?” she asked, coming through crystal clear.
Then, oops, my finger pressed the red button to end the call.
I didn’t move. I squeezed my phone in the palm of my hand as I willed the color to drain from my cheeks. No such luck. After a beat or two of awkward silence—without much choice—I slowly lifted my face toward Cole. The torture was one sided. He was smiling sinfully at me. He’d never been happier in his life. He’d never let me live this down, I knew it.
“So . . . just how much did you talk about me to your mom?”
I winced and closed my eyes before assuring him that it was “a normal, infinitesimal amount. Hardly at all.”
“Oh? Hmm.” He didn’t buy it. He pointed to my phone. “Should we call them back to verify?”
Panicked over the idea, I chucked my phone, and it skittered to a stop on the floor clear across the room. The screen probably cracked, but what did I care?
Cole only gloated more, and I was forced to take matters into my own hands. I pivoted and turned to face him, scooting closer. Already, his breath hitched. Then I climbed up and over him until I was sitting on his lap with my hands delicately placed on his shoulders.
Immediately, his hands found my waist and he tightened his grip, ensuring I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Sure . . . ,” I said, starting to unbutton his shirt, because yes, Cole still wears button-downs, even on Sundays. It’s his MO, and I’m not breaking him of the habit. Why would I? I like it. “We could call my parents back if you want?”
I sounded like a seductress, and it was working. Already Cole’s eyelids were growing heavy with desire. Once the first few buttons were undone, I bent down to kiss along his neck and collarbone, taking my time and appreciating every sculpted inch of him. He’s gloriously tan. Those Sicilian grandparents of his were getting a letter of thanks first thing in the morning.
I traced my finger down the center of his chest, watching his lungs constrict and expand. I loved knowing I was the reason he was breathing so hard. All his precious control was starting to slip . . .
“Or we could enjoy our first night as roommates,” I suggested innocently.
“You’re more than my roommate,” he said, his tone full of fire. He slid his hands into my shirt and started to lift it up and over my head. It was too easy. He had me down to my bra in an instant.
“Oh, right. More than roommates . . . Friends, then?” I quipped, knowing it would rankle him. We are most definitely past that point, but I still can’t help but tease him about it.