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)
Ordinarily, I would laugh at someone who would say something so ridiculous. “You told me to leave if I was uncomfortable. I’m distinctly uncomfortable.”
“Well, then fuck you and your tender sensibilities,” he snarls.
“No, fuck you,” I snarl right back at him as I barrel past. I’m pissed, and I hate that my eyes sting with the threat of tears because that just plain hurt my feelings.
Before I reach the door, Coen’s got my wrist in his hand, pulling me to a stop. “Wait, Tillie. I’m sorry.”
I jerk out of his hold, and he lets go without hesitation. His expression is remorseful, but I see anger brewing under the surface.
“What is wrong with you?” I repeat, my tone as calm as I can make it. My instincts say to flee.
Coen pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and sucks in a long breath before immediately releasing it. When his eyes open, I see he’s under control. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I told you I’m an asshole.”
“No,” I say sharply, causing him to blink in surprise. “That’s not who you are. It’s a behavior you’ve developed to avoid what’s really going on.”
“How do you know I’ve not always been an asshole?” he asks.
“Because I googled you. I’ve read enough to know that you were the opposite of an asshole before the crash. Most described you as outgoing, funny, a little cocky, but people loved you.”
Coen scoffs and turns from me, moving to the deck rail. His back is to me as he looks out over his yard. He has a tin bucket there I hadn’t noticed, and he pulls a few peanuts out of it.
I wait for him to crack them open to eat—perhaps he’s gathering his thoughts—but instead he calls out, “Chip… come and get it.”
My eyebrows knit in confusion. Maybe he’s gone off the deep end.
And then to my shock, a chipmunk scampers up the deck steps, runs right to Coen, and climbs up his jeans.
Climbs. Up. His. Jeans.
My jaw drops as the tiny critter runs up over the back of Coen’s T-shirt and perches on his shoulder. Coen then cracks open the peanut and offers the kernels inside to the chipmunk, who stuffs them in his cheeks.
“What in the hell?” I blurt.
Coen turns to face me, cracking open another peanut. The chipmunk waits patiently, and when he’s handed the nuts, he stuffs them in his cheeks again. “This is Chip. My buddy.”
“I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone,” I say, taking a tentative step toward them. The chipmunk’s whiskers twitch, but his eyes stay glued on Coen’s hands as he works open another shell.
“This is a byproduct of your prank.” Coen opens one more peanut, and when the nuts are tucked into Chip’s cheeks, he leaps from Coen’s shoulder to the railing. From there he runs along its length, down the steps, and jumps out into the grass. I have to lean left to look past Coen so I can watch as Chip jets toward a large bush and disappears under it.
I’m in absolute awe as I turn back to Coen. “Wow.”
You’d think the interaction with the chipmunk and my befuddlement would be enough to get him to smile, but he looks as uptight as ever.
“What happened between the text you sent inviting me here and now?”
“Nothing happened, really.” Coen moves back to the rail and leans his forearms on it. I move beside him, angled so I can see his face. “My Realtor told me my condo is getting ready to be listed in Pittsburgh and it will sell fast. I’ve got to go collect the rest of my stuff.”
“And you’re upset about it?” I inquire, needing to find the source of his angst since he’s not giving it up easy.
“I don’t know,” he answers, turning his head to look at me. “I’m relieved it’s getting done and also doubtful this is the right move at the same time.”
“Confusing,” I say.
“Guess it’s made me introspective.”
“It’s made you a dick,” I correct, and that elicits a slight smile. “But I understand it.”
He holds my gaze a moment before letting his eyes drift back out over the yard. “Why didn’t you tell me you were building the art studio to give free lessons?”
I’m not surprised by the question but by the accusation I hear in his tone. “Why should I have told you? It wouldn’t have changed your position on the trees.”
“No, it wouldn’t have,” he says dully.
It shouldn’t hurt to hear that, but it does. It means there really isn’t anything between us at all.
And I thought I could handle that—a no-strings, short-term fling. But that was when we were having fun and I was getting smiles and spending time with him made me giddy.
Now I just feel wary.
“I think I’m going to go.”