Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 13
Estimated words: 11536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 58(@200wpm)___ 46(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 58(@200wpm)___ 46(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
As she’s typing, the three little dots informing me that she is, I add: Been thinking about that mouth of yours and what I plan to do to it next.
Aubrey: No sexting just yet. That requires three dates.
Smirking at her response I debate on what to say next. I don’t want to fuck it up, but I damn sure need her to know we are in fact a thing and I will be telling this whole damn town just that.
Bennet: Is three dates what it takes to call you my girl?
She starts typing, then stops and all the while I lean back, sitting up in the bed, TV on although I don’t have a clue what’s playing. I glance at my phone, wondering what the hell is going through that pretty little head of hers.
Aubrey: I take that to mean you don’t sleep with every customer you service?
A hum of humor leaves me as I text back: Service? Is that what they call it now?
Before she can second-guess a thing or starts wondering if I’m seeing other people I write: I prefer exclusivity and it’s only been you.
I almost add to the end of the line: since I’ve been back. Almost, but it doesn’t feel right. I know it’s been years and I’ve been with people just like she has. But there’s not a woman I’m interested in other than Bree.
Hell, I think fate set us up. I think she’s always been meant to be mine.
After a moment she messages: I liked you servicing me today.
I joke, texting: I could come back and service you right now if you’d like. I can imagine her laugh. That sweet sound I remember so well.
Aubrey: Calm down there, Bennet … we might have started fast but can we take it slow?
I second-guess my first response, which is to joke about going slow during foreplay. There’s something about her that’s vulnerable and I’ll be damned if I fuck this up. My answer is simple: I can go slow. We can go as slow as you want, Bree.
A moment passes and then another of her typing a message. I imagine it’s going to be long judging by the way the three dots drop out of sight and reappear, but all it is when she finally sends it is: Tell me something I don’t know.
I rattle off a few things that have happened since I moved back. Nothing heavy and everything easy. She asks questions and I ask them back.
And there’s plenty to ask.
We barely even spoke back then in high school. We were close for a short while, then it was dangerous territory, then it was nothing. Like I never existed.
I knew everything about her, and she knew everything about me. That’s what happens when you live in a small town. But still we spend the entire night texting the details that this small town doesn’t know about us. The little things and the big things. Until my eyelids are heavy and she tells me she has to sleep.
That’s when I tell her to dream of me.
AUBREY
The porch swing has a subtle creak with every rock backward. Although you can hardly hear it over Marlena’s laugh. Gemma doesn’t stop her story as my friends on Cedar Lane continue the tradition of Wine Down Wednesday on Marlena’s porch. Lauren pours another glass of sangria and Gemma downs her rosé before heading inside to get another bottle.
From here I can see my house across the street and three doors to the right. That bright blue door stares back at me. It knows my secret. I kissed Bennet on the other side of that door and not a soul knows it.
“Whatever it is, I want to know because it’s got her all flustered,” Gemma says in a tone that demands my attention and I look back to my left to see all three of my friends staring back expectantly.
The light is setting over the scenic view of our suburban street … but my stomach refuses to settle down.
“What?” I try to play it off and my voice is too high pitched. Swallowing thickly, I watch Gemma’s brow raise in skepticism; all the while Marlena covers her mouth to keep in a laugh. She’s never been good at hiding her expressions. Add in a half pitcher of Lauren’s sangria, which I swear is all alcohol because she refuses to share the recipe, and Marlena’s got no hope in the world of hiding anything from us.
“Well, spill,” she presses, her voice giddy with delight as she leans back in the white wicker chair. The porch swing creaks again when Lauren takes her seat next to me. This time everyone hears before she gestures for me to do the same: to spill it.
My three neighbors who I’ve been friends with for nearly my entire life, and even closer to these last four years I’ve lived on this street wouldn’t tell a soul … I don’t think.