Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I say, taking the cupcake from his hand. Our fingers touch by accident, and like last night, my stomach twists in giddiness at the nearness. “Grab one, and come on.” I nod for him to follow me.
He picks his cupcake after a second careful perusal and follows me to the couch. I feel like this should be awkward right now. That us like this would be uncomfortable for some reason, especially after last night, but like all the times I’ve spent with Charlie, it’s not. It’s easy, which brings up an earlier thought I had. Is it too easy with him? Is it even possible to be too easy? I’m going to drive myself insane with all of this overanalyzing.
“How are you doing?” he asks, peeling his wrapper down on one side.
“I’m good. It’s been a weird week, but I’m holding up. How are you?”
He’s about to take a big bite, but stops and says, “I’ve been thinking about my great-aunt a lot.”
“I’d love to hear about her if you want to share.”
He sighs, and I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not today.”
He looks at his cupcake, and a small smile returns. “These look great.” His mouth opens wide, and he closes his eyes as he takes a big bite of the small cake, frosting spotting his cheek. Opening his eyes, he catches me staring. Looking embarrassed, he asks, “What?”
I laugh. I shouldn’t, but I do. “You’ve got . . .” I start saying as I point at the left of his mouth, then swirl my finger wide in the air in front of him. “A little frosting there.”
His tongue darts out and licks. “Here?” Charlie rubs his finger where I first pointed.
“No, over more.”
He sticks out his tongue and searches his cheek again. “Still there?”
“No, a little more to the right.”
He wipes aimlessly around his mouth, missing the spot, so I reach over and wipe the chocolate off with my thumb. I linger just a second before laughing.
“Thanks,” he says, all mischievous smile and happy eyes.
I’m quick to retract my hand because that was probably inappropriate. Actually, I’m positive it was inappropriate. Looking down, I take another bite of my cupcake instead of licking my thumb like I want. Self-conscious that he sees right through me, I try to distract by saying the first thing that comes to mind.
“So why’d you track me down? Just had to know my last name?”
“Yes, and I want your phone number.” His confidence is attractive.
He finishes his cupcake, and I nibble on mine.
“What do you want my number for?” I take the empty wrappers and get up to toss them in the trash.
“Usually they’re given so people can reach you, talk to you, and schedule time together—”
“Okay, okay.” I smile. “So you want to do those things with me?”
“No. I just collect numbers.” His sarcasm drips.
“Fifty-five,” I say, deadpan.
“Fifty-five?”
“Yeah, you can add that to your collection.”
He laughs, sinking back into the couch cushions to get more comfortable. “You’re funny, real funny.” He chuckles as he folds his arms across his chest.
I return, leaning against the arm of the couch. “Make yourself at home.”
He gets my humor. “You have plans today?” He may be asking, but his body position tells me he has no intention of getting off this couch anytime soon.
“Oh yes, I have very fancy plans today. I was going to clean the mess I made in the kitchen, order a pizza, eat about a half dozen cupcakes, and watch movies. You want to stay? I mean, I’m sure your day can’t be as exciting as mine, but you’re invited to the grand event.” I roll my eyes because my day sounds so lame, even if I do play it up in a joking manner.
“Sounds like a good plan, and I’ll buy the pizza.”
He’ll stay? Charlie wants to stay and spend the day here . . . with me? “Really?”
His face contorts. “Did you not want me to?”
“No, of course I did. I just didn’t think you’d want to.”
He sits up straight, questions filling his eyes. “So you invited me on the pretense that you didn’t think I’d accept? Does that mean”—he stands and takes a few steps toward the door—“you don’t want me to stay? I can go. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I invited you because I want you to stay. I just didn’t think you’d want to.”
He stops in front of the door, looking at me, reading me in that way I’m starting to become accustomed to, a way that makes me feel like he cares. He’s looking beyond the surface and seeing the real me underneath my words. “I’d like to hang out with you.”
“I’d like that, too. I’m not letting you buy the pizza, but you can pick the first flick.”