Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“We’re almost to my grandmother’s, so yeah.” Wide eyed, I stare out the window, then glance back at him. “I don’t remember giving you her address. I don’t remember anything.”
“Yet you speak with remarkable lucidity in your sleep.” His words are as frigid as ever, creating this confusing contrast with the sensual roar of his voice. His expression is pensive as he keeps his gaze trained out the window. It’s almost like if he looks at me, something terrible will happen. Like a man avoiding his own power to curse. “You were quite serious about the severity of your migraines. I caught you when you fainted in the terminal. When we paged the airport PA system and there was no one there to fetch you, I asked for an address so I could drop you off. Along the way, you slept on me in traffic three times and decided to use my lap as a pillow.” Definite touch of icy offense there. “Since you were so stubborn about waking up, I had no choice but to accept the situation.”
Dude.
You could’ve just said I passed out, so you’re taking me home.
I smile faintly. It’s like talking to someone negotiating a legal contract, stating every word carefully to avoid misinterpretation and possible liability.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “I’m sorry for inconveniencing you. That’s twice you’ve saved me now.”
“Bull. Offering you a handkerchief isn’t an act of heroism. Had I left you with the TSA, you would have been fine, minus a far less comfortable nap.”
My smile strengthens at the scowl on his face.
So, so stuffy.
“Well, thanks anyway. I appreciate everything. You’re a really nice guy.”
“I’m anything but,” he retorts. “I’m simply doing what’s practical.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
I want to ask more—I’m suddenly so curious it’s practically eating me alive—but the car pulls up right outside Gran’s sweet little blue cottage, with its arched wrought iron entryway and a fence covered in climbing jasmine vines that, even in a cold late February, are green and waiting to bloom once the season warms up.
Grandma Jackie is just coming out the door, leaning hard on the forearm crutch she now uses after refusing a walker. She’s got her keys in her other hand, and she turns to lock the door while fumbling to keep her purse on her shoulder when it keeps sliding off the slickness of her bulky jacket.
All while she’s also trying to hold an umbrella over her head without dropping her crutch.
Crap.
She probably intends to pick me up at the airport, even though I told her not to.
She looks shaky. She definitely shouldn’t be standing, let alone driving.
My stomach sinks.
I don’t have time to be curious about my bizarre benefactor, or even to carry on a longer conversation expressing my gratitude.
Definitely no time to get his number so I can pay him back somehow, take him out to lunch, buy him a new pocket square, get him some facial therapy so he can relearn how to smile, whatever.
The moment the car stops, his assistant barely gets out one syllable before I fling the door open, letting in a chill breeze.
“Sorry!” I throw back. “She’s hurt and I have to help her, thank you guys again, I’ll find my own way to—” I stop.
Repay you, I want to say.
But the moment I grab my bag and tumble out on the slick sidewalk in front of the house, the door to the car—a nice car; I’d barely noticed the luxurious interior, but I definitely notice the swanky exterior—shuts.
I stand there staring with my mouth slightly open, rain plonking down on my head in freezing droplets as the car pulls away.
Dang.
That was the nicest rude thing anyone’s ever done for me.
Also, I have no idea what just happened.
I didn’t even catch his name.
But I only give myself a few more seconds to wonder before I dash through the gate and pelt down the stone path bisecting Gran’s beautifully cultivated garden lawn and dash up the short front steps to her porch.
Just in time to catch her as she starts to turn and her crutch slips on the edge of the top step.
“Oh!” she cries.
“Gotcha!” I catch her by the shoulder and steady her.
Gran blinks up at me through her round spectacles.
She’s a small, slim bird of a woman with a thick tumble of wispy grey hair that refuses to stay in the bun she’s twisted it into.
“Elle?” She reaches for me, but her hands are still a little too full. “I was just on my way to get you. I’m so sorry I’m running behind. I still move so slow, you know—”
“I told you, you didn’t have to come at all,” I chide gently, taking the keys from her to fit the house key in the lock and push the door open. “You shouldn’t be driving. I got a ride, and it was fine. But it’s cold out here. Let’s head inside before we get too wet and catch a cold.”