Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Does it bother you?”
I look toward her without moving my head. “Would you believe me if I said I’m used to it?”
She considers this for a moment. “Yes. But that’s not what I asked.”
We step onto her floor, but it’s not until she digs her keys out of her purse that I answer the question. “Yeah. Yeah, it bothers me.”
She nods in understanding, and I’m relieved that she doesn’t press me to say more.
Instead, we let ourselves be greeted by an ecstatic Juno, who’s so busy bounding in circles that I can barely get her leash on.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Sabrina says as the dog tugs me toward the door.
“You endured my mother’s dry lamb chops and my dad’s mistress singing an ABBA medley. I’ve got this. Keys?” She tosses them to me, and I catch them in midair.
Juno charges full speed through the hall, paces impatiently in the elevator, and then shoots across the lobby. Once outside, she slows her roll. She may not hate the rain, but she definitely doesn’t love it. She does her business quickly and efficiently before dragging me back toward the door.
Even still, we’re sopping wet by the time we get back inside. Juan’s working again tonight, and he lifts an idle hand in greeting as I pass. I grin, wondering how Sabrina would feel about the fact that her doorman is officially and thoroughly used to me.
Even if I didn’t already know where Sabrina lived, Juno knows the way. I let her drag me to the apartment, where her tail wags impatiently for me to dig the key out of my pocket.
I let us both inside and unclip the dog’s leash.
When I straighten, my eyes find Sabrina in the kitchen, and my heart stops with a pang of longing. She’s already changed out of her dress and into tight black pants and an oversize sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Ugly green socks are on her feet, her hair’s pulled back from her face in a messy bun, and she looks . . . beautiful.
I’ve seen her out of her work clothes before, seen her hair in the same messy knot, but only when I’ve surprised her by showing up unannounced. Tonight, she knew I’d see her like this when I brought the dog back up.
I suppose it could be a warning sign that she lets me see her in an outfit so obviously nonseductive, but if that’s her plan, it’s backfiring. Nothing could be more seductive than the realization that she’s willing to let her guard down around me.
Finally.
She glances up, a faint smile on her makeup-free lips. “I’m making tea. You want a cup?”
I hate tea, but I feel myself nod.
She looks at me more closely. “You’re soaking wet.”
I glance down. “Yeah. I’d ask if you have any extra men’s clothes stashed around, but I’m not entirely sure I want to know the answer.”
“Yes, because I’m sure you’ve been celibate since we first met,” she says, dropping a couple of tea bags into a pot. “I’ll get you a towel.”
It’s more my sweater that’s wet than anything, so I pull it off and set it over the back of a chair. I’m standing in just my undershirt as she reenters the living room, tossing a towel at me.
“Thanks.” I run the towel over my wet hair. “Where’s Juno?”
“Post-poo-in-the-rain routine usually involves rolling on her back on my bedroom rug for a solid five minutes. I’ve learned not to question it.”
Sabrina uses her phone to turn on music, and the soft sounds of a female jazz vocalist I’m not familiar with fill the room. She grabs two mugs and carries them and the teapot into the living room.
Setting them on the ottoman that doubles as her coffee table, she stares at the teapot for a long moment before looking up at me, her expression thoughtful. “Can I ask you something?”
I sit beside her on the couch, careful to keep my distance, terrified of ruining the fragile truce between us. “Sure.”
She turns her attention back to the teapot and pours the tea. “Are your parents why you’re dead set against marriage?” She smiles faintly and hands me a mug.
I nod in thanks before answering her question. “Probably.”
“Probably it’s because of your parents?”
I nod. “I mean, it’s not quite as simple as my seeing how fucked up their marriage was and making a vow never to follow in their footsteps. But over time, being a part of that—and I was a part of it, not that they ever bothered to notice—it wears on a kid. Hell, it wears on an adult.”
I’m braced for the usual lecture—that my parents’ mistakes don’t have to be my own, that I can’t live my life in reaction to someone else’s missteps, etc. etc. Everything that every woman or girlfriend has tried to tell me over the years until I finally gave up altogether and made it clear that I didn’t want a relationship, period.