Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“Really?” He swallows, those twilight eyes starlit with emotion. “What is it?”
“A little blue wallaby. His name is Joey.”
“That’s perfect, Kennedy.” He gives a tiny shake of his head like he’s having difficulty processing. “Thank you.” As he sets my glass on the table, he turns his head, and I can’t quite make out his expression.
“It’s kind of tattered now,” I jabber. “Very well loved, I guess.”
“I can’t tell you . . .” Roman shakes his head as though to shake out words or thoughts. “Fuck.” The roughness of his unshaven cheek makes a rasp beneath the pads of his fingers. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” I scrunch my nose a little. “Because there’s more.”
“More stuffies?”
“More like stuff ups,” I admit.
“Lay it on me.” He makes a curling motion with one hand. The other, the one resting along the back of the couch, curls around my shoulder. My God, it feels nice.
“He started to ask a lot of questions, only lately. Questions I really didn’t know the answers to. So I started to make things up.” My shoulders stiffen, and I do this weird face twist thing. I don’t know what I was expecting—it’s not like I’ve told Wilder his dad was Dwayne the Rock or anything—but I guess I wasn’t expecting him to throw back his head and roar with laughter. And I can do nothing but stare. Stare at the smooth column of his neck and that rasp of dark stubble. And why in the name of all that’s holy do I, a member of the fairer sex, seem to have more nostril hair than he does?
“So what’s the verdict. Who am I?”
“I didn’t do this lightly or to make things easy for me.”
“Kennedy.” His large hand suddenly engulfs mine. “One look at the two of you together. That’s all it took. I know you’re an amazing mum.”
“I just couldn’t stand for him not to know. My gaze dips but rises again as his hand tightens. “You like the colour orange.”
“Tomorrow, I’m off to buy a dozen orange things. Because you know what? I think I do.”
“And when he asked what you did for a job, I told him you were a businessman.”
“Too easy. Plus, I look killer in a suit, which I’m sure you can attest to.”
“Don’t go out and buy a suit.” The rest? I really try not to allow my mind to bend to that time, and I mostly manage it. “It’s not like there’s going to be a test, but you do love broccoli.”
“I kind of do love broccolini, so that’s technically a lucky guess, not a lie.”
“No one loves broccoli, Roman.”
“Roasted in olive oil and garlic, drizzled with tahini sauce? It’s fucking yum. Give me a dinner to cook, and I guarantee he’ll love it, too.”
“Wilder isn’t a fan of green food.”
“Then I’ll have to introduce him to pesto on his pizza. Jeez, you’re making me hungry now,” he says with a rueful chuckle.
“I really don’t have any pasta for you,” I answer, kind of embarrassed now that he’s being so sweet.
“Did you really give him cake?”
“Wilder?” Are we back on the topic of birthdays? But that look he’s giving me? It’s an ah moment. We were getting along so well, and now I find a heavy rock in the pit of my stomach at the topic of Drew. Words begin tumbling from my mouth, and I wrap my hand around the albums as I begin to stand. “Are you hungry?” And I told him I wasn’t feeding him. I made him feel unwelcome, yet here he sits, and I have no idea how. “I can get you something to—” His fingers loop my wrist, causing me to forget my words.
“I’m not hungry for pasta,” he says softly, reaching to touch my cheek. His caress is soft and lingering, and his eyes are no longer twilight or starlight but a velvet kind of midnight.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whisper, praying for the deliverance of good sense as the space between us vibrates, adrenaline and anticipation swimming through my veins.
“Is that because of your invited dinner guest?”
I shake my head at something that sounds like a taunt, grasping for something to say next, but words seem so far beyond my abilities.
“Maybe the trick is not to think.” His gentle voice has to be a ruse, yet as he leans in, I still tilt my head. I give in to a sigh, my fingers curling over the edges of the album still open on my knee. “Not to think but take.” Our lips barely brush, his breath and his words so tantalising. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, Kennedy. You’re allowed to be a little selfish, but the next move has to be yours.”
Smart man, my mind whispers, because then I’ll have no one to blame but myself.