Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
He immediately regretted asking for a response. Or maybe the problem was that he didn’t regret it at all and would be thinking about her biting into his butt cheek like an apple for the rest of his life. “Better.” He coughed. “You’re in a robe, Josephine.” Lord, he sounded like he’d been wandering in the desert for a week. “Do you want to put something on?”
Briefly, she looked down, then back up at him with an arched brow. “You’ve seen me in less now, haven’t you?” she said dryly. “But let me know if you’re going to succumb to the vapors. I’ll ring the front desk for smelling salts.”
With that, she let the door close, giving Wells no choice but to catch it and step inside, shutting it behind him. He’d made a mistake coming here. The room was fragrant from her bath, flowers and soap scenting the air. She’d turned on just a single lamp, lending a heavy intimacy to the room. Mood lighting that could only be termed as dangerous.
“Actually, I was going to get dressed and go to your room,” Josephine said, taking a seat on the couch and tucking her feet beneath her. “You saved me a trip.”
He hesitated at the end of the couch. “Why were you coming to my room?”
God man, try to sound a little less horny.
Easier said than done. He couldn’t stop wondering what, if anything, she was wearing beneath that fluffy white robe. And how warm her skin would still be from the bath.
Did hot water make her limber?
Enough, asshole.
Something might very well be happening here, between them. Not that he had any idea what it was. But their positions as employee and employer made the tightrope they were walking on very thin, so he needed to navigate it carefully, for her sake.
“Well.” She shifted her position, tucking a section of wet hair behind her ear. “What I was going to say . . . it seemed like a good idea when I was in the bath. But now that you’re standing here in front of me looking like you just woke up from a forty-year coma and found out cars can fly . . . I’m second-guessing myself.”
“Fuck. Sorry.” Wells dragged a hand down his face. She had no idea how embarrassingly apt a description that was. He sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “Guess I’m still a little shell-shocked after that round today.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I knew you had it in you.”
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he said in a rush. It was that or kiss her.
“Okay. Okay.” She folded her hands in her lap. Took a breath.
Oh, this was important.
Wells turned to face her a little more.
“I don’t want to be too long-winded about the whole thing,” she started. “But . . . you know, my parents were really protective when I was growing up. Because of . . .” She waved a hand at her insulin kit, which was sitting open on the coffee table. “You know.”
Wells swallowed. “I follow.”
“Like, my mother quit her job when I was diagnosed, so she could be home in case my elementary school called with an emergency. So, my parents were telling me everything was going to be fine, that I could live a normal, happy life like everyone else, but their actions said otherwise. I couldn’t possibly be like everyone else if they felt the need to alert my soccer coaches or the parents of my friends. Or if they screamed, ‘Do you have the emergency shot?’ at each other every time we left the house.”
A zipper had formed at the center of his chest and it closed one tooth at a time, tightening, tightening. “That was probably really scary.”
Josephine nodded. Took a moment to keep going. “Anyway, when I got older, I just needed to shut them out. When it came to my diabetes. For my own good. For their own good—I mean, the worry was going to kill them. They were doing their best. I love them. But I’m the one who has to live with it, you know? I’m the only one who understands. It’s hard when other people get involved, because they remind me to be scared.”
The air supply in the room had dwindled down to nothing. “Do you need to be scared?”
“If I overthink it? Yes. My life depends on this vial of insulin. But as long as I have what I need, I can live to be a hundred. People are told every day that they have conditions they can’t live with. That makes me lucky in a sad, doesn’t-have-a-working-pancreas kind of way, right?”
This wasn’t the first time it had hit Wells how easily he could have chalked this woman up to being an overzealous fan. A face in the crowd. A beautiful one, sure, but a mere member of his cheering section, nonetheless. When, in fact, she should be celebrated everywhere she went. Wells ached to tell her she was so fucking brave, but intuition told him she wouldn’t react well. It would remind her there was something to be scared about and she’d just told him she hated that.