Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
But no… he’s in this truck with me. He won a teddy bear for me, held my hand, kissed me on the Ferris wheel.
My hand goes back to his arm, and his gaze meets mine. “You’re not that man anymore.”
I see it in his face. The refusal to believe in something different. His steadfast position that he’s not a nice man. It’s naked in his expression, and I understand he’s letting me see it.
Then it’s gone, replaced by a smile.
One that’s mischievous. It makes me giddy.
“Can I stay the night?” he asks.
“You know you can,” I reply, my words barely a whisper because he takes my breath away.
CHAPTER 19
Coen
I walk into Masha’s, and when I make eye contact with Jake the bartender, I get a chin lift of greeting. It makes me feel like a bona fide local.
No one fussing over me because I’m Coen Highsmith.
No one wanting to talk hockey.
As much anonymity as one could hope for, given the news I generated when I was playing.
I’m not surprised to see Hank sitting at the short end of the bar, a burger and a Coke in front of him. I know he works a few blocks down at a fly-fishing and hunting outfitter. I really enjoyed talking to him about fishing at the fair the other night, and he promised to take me out sometime to a stream that’s kind of a hidden treasure.
I make my way over to him, and he smiles as he sees me approach. “There’s the up-and-coming fly-fisherman.”
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, nodding to the adjacent stool.
“Free world,” he replies before taking another bite of his burger. Jake approaches and sets a napkin in front of me.
“I’ll have a Rolling Rock,” I say.
“Anything to eat?” he asks.
“Nah… I had a late breakfast.” Only because I slept until mid-morning. And that was only because I was up all night fucking Tillie.
Christ, she’s become like a drug I can’t get enough of. I’d gone months without any interest in women—the guilt from what I did with Darcy compounding my overall depression after the plane went down—but now I can’t look at Tillie without wanting to touch her.
Mostly kiss her. I’ve never enjoyed the act of kissing as much as I do with her. A woman’s lips have never felt so soft, and she does this breathy little sigh into my mouth that makes me feel like I’m king of the mountain or some shit.
Jake returns with my beer and I take a sip. I didn’t really want it, but when you’re in a bar, you should drink something, I guess.
I’m only here because I’m bored and looking for something to do. Tillie’s painting, and I’ve come to learn that’s a very solitary endeavor.
I learned that the first night I stayed with her when, after breakfast, she kicked me out so she could work.
And yeah, I even like that about her. That she needs her private time and she’s not focused on trying to take all mine.
Although, admittedly, I’d be fine hanging out in the same room with her while she painted. I could read a book or surf my phone.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Dreaming of sitting in a room with Tillie to be near her. I scrub my hands over my face, hoping it will wipe away this obsession.
“Looks like you got a load on your mind,” Hank says, and I blink at him.
“Yeah… sorry. Just thinking.”
“About Tillie?” he guesses before popping a french fry into his mouth.
I don’t know this guy very well. Only hung with him a bit at the music festival and the fair a few nights ago. I’m generally a private person, even more so after the crash.
And yet, I find myself answering, “Hard not to think of her.”
Hank chuckles. “She’s one in a million. They don’t get any more genuine than her.”
“I think I’ve figured that out.” I take another drink of my beer. “Tillie said you all grew up together.”
“All of us except Xander. He’s a transplant to the area, but yeah… Erica, Tillie, Ann Marie, and Hayley, all best friends since kindergarten. I’m allowed in the group by virtue of dating Erica.”
“I’ve heard you make a trusty designated driver.”
Tillie told me about their pub crawl tradition with Hank carting them around.
Hank laughs as he wipes his hands with a napkin and pushes his plate back. “Luckily, they don’t do the crawl that often, but they sure are a lot of fun when they’re drunk. You wouldn’t believe the things women talk about when they’re loaded.”
I grin at the image of a drunk Tillie. “Oh, I can imagine.”
“Where is she?” he asks.
“Painting. I’m not allowed to hang around when she’s working.”
Hank has second thoughts about pushing his plate away and grabs another fry. He swirls it in ketchup. “Tillie’s an incredible artist, and it’s never work to her. Whether she’s painting or teaching, she sort of gets in her own world surrounded by colors and imagination.”