Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
It’s sad to say I haven’t felt all that inspired to date in the last few years. I’ve put myself out there—mostly due to the insistence of friends—but the routine has become a little stale. Slow, awkward first dates. Good-but-not-great sex. Nonexistent banter. It’s my fault. I’m the asshole on my phone during dinner. I’m the jerk who doesn’t call back. I’m the guy who apparently forgets his date’s name. Yikes, that’s…not good. I just don’t know how to stop myself from focusing all of my attention on work. It doesn’t help that I’ve built up this illusion in my mind, this idea that I’m just biding my time, waiting for someone to shake me out of this stupor.
Even worse, I did find that woman.
Taylor.
Our encounter last month was like a slap to the face. WAKE UP, YOU IDIOT. Look at her! Look at her sitting at the bar and realize that if you don’t crawl over broken glass to get to this woman, you will regret it for the rest of your life. So, I followed her into that bathroom, and I kissed her with an all-consuming need. Her smooth curves pressed against mine, her full lips tempting me toward insanity.
She was different, wild, beautiful. She was…stealing my wallet while I was thinking only of how I could convince her to spend the night with me.
The reminder twists my gut.
Ah yes, she was different because she was a seductive actress.
Not real.
I push to stand.
The sun is hanging low in the sky now, behind the canopy of trees. Soon, I’ll need the lantern to find my way around, but Isla drones on. Isla is always droning on. Fiery meteors could be raining down from the sky and she would want to chat about it, preferably for two hours.
“Isla,” I say, interrupting a story about her boss. “I gotta go.”
“Oh! Okay. I’ll let you know how drinks go tomorrow. Chances are I’ll be texting you vomit emojis.”
After we hang up, I head inside the cabin, turn on the lantern, and lie down on my bunk to read. It’s kind of nice being out here. My computer is back in the trailer near the jobsite where there’s power and a boosted internet connection. In the cabin, the wireless internet on my phone is slow and not worth bothering with, which means no work. I have to read, and when reading proves a poor distraction from thoughts of Taylor, I change into workout clothes and go for a run, setting a punishing pace. I like the trails around the camp, though it was stupid to run this late. By the time I make it back, it’s pitch-black outside and I’ve nearly tripped over my feet ten times.
I’m dripping with sweat when I push the door open, and my eyes immediately rove to Taylor’s bunk.
Empty.
I stomp toward the bathroom and jerk the shower knob until icy water rains down on my head. It’s my second shower of the evening, my towel still wet from the last one. I scrub my hair and arms and legs and avoid the urge to touch myself anywhere that’s not perfectly necessary. I’ve closed my eyes and stroked myself, dreaming of her, all month. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction tonight, even if she’d never know about it.
When I step back out in my lounge pants and no shirt, Taylor still isn’t back.
I worry about her walking around out here in the middle of the night, but then I remind myself that she’s not mine to worry about.
I turn off the lantern and get in bed. I’m lying on my bunk with my eyes closed, willing sleep to take me, when the cabin door creaks open. She tiptoes in on light feet like she’s trying not to wake me. I listen as she carefully takes off her boots, a soft hiss escaping her lips. I’m not surprised—they’re too big on her, and I’m sure she has blisters by now.
I open my eyes as she starts to tiptoe past the bunk, grabs something from the dresser, and then disappears into the bathroom. She doesn’t turn a light on, but she runs the sink on a gentle stream. At first, I think she’s brushing her teeth, but then I realize she must be trying to wash off without having to turn the shower on.
It’s ridiculous, these lengths she’s willing to go to.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens silently and she tiptoes toward the ladder. I thought she was going to get her things and leave, but it turns out she’s staying. Interesting.
“What’s your name, man?” I ask suddenly.
She jumps out of her skin and knocks something off the dresser—my hat, probably. She replaces it then quickly scrambles up the ladder to her bunk.
“Oh…uh, Taylor.”
She speaks so softly I can barely hear her, and I wonder if she’s worried I’ll recognize her voice. As it is, I’m surprised she gave me an honest answer, though it’s probably because the name Taylor is pretty androgynous.