Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“You’re kidding me. Bear?”
“He’ll answer to that or John,” she quips.
A waiter appears and we look his way. “Would you like to see a wine list?”
I glance at Stevie in question.
“I’d rather have a beer,” she says.
“Same,” I reply.
The waiter looks slightly offended since this is an upscale restaurant, but we put our order in for two IPAs and listen to the specials.
“Anyway,” I say, returning to my curiosity about her dad. “Why did he look like he wanted to pound me into the ground?”
Her shoulder lifts in a half shrug, but she smiles mischievously.
“If I don’t have you home at a reasonable hour, will I be killed or just my legs broken?”
Stevie chuckles. “I’m an adult, Hendrix. I’m even allowed to stay out all night if I want.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-five. You?”
“I’ll be twenty-six in a few months. But I also get the impression your dad doesn’t care that you’re an adult. He’s going to be overprotective no matter your age.”
Stevie’s smile softens, awash with tenderness. “He’s been that way my entire life and I wouldn’t change it for the world. But to ease your mind, pretty sure your life and bones are safe. He just looks tough.”
“What about your mom?”
Stevie’s tiny burst of laughter is mirthless. “That’s a completely complicated question and one that’s not worth our time discussing.”
“I think anything you want to discuss is worth my time.”
Those eyes focus intently on me as if she can’t quite figure out what the game is. “What is this?” she asks.
“What’s what?”
She motions with her hand. “What is this going on tonight? Is it a date, a hookup? I don’t get why you’d think what I have to say has any worth.”
I frown, leaning forward and crossing my arms on the table. “It’s a date. I don’t understand how you could even be perplexed.”
“Because this time twenty-four hours ago, you had a girlfriend. It seems weird that you’ve brought me to this expensive restaurant, and now you’re asking questions that make it seem like you’re genuinely interested in getting to know me.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning back from the table, creating space between us. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to make you think anything other than I just wanted to go out with you. Or why you can’t understand that I find you interesting and beautiful and would indeed like to know more about you.”
Stevie takes a breath and holds her hands out in a silent gesture that seems to say, Let’s stop a minute and back up.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “It’s just… I don’t want to be a rebound.”
“You’re not.” I don’t know how to say it any simpler or more assuredly than that. “I agree the timing isn’t the best, but honestly I checked out of that relationship—if you can even call it that—a long time ago. I’m more than happy to tell you anything you want to know about it.”
The waiter returns with our beers and frosted pilsner glasses. He pours and sets them before us and then asks, “Would you like to order?”
I shake my head. “Haven’t even cracked the menus open.”
He bends at the waist slightly. “Take your time. I’ll check back.”
When he’s gone, Stevie says, “I just want you to know, I’m not looking for anything serious.”
“Can’t say that I am either.”
“And not really looking for a hookup,” she says, a bit of challenge in her tone.
“Wasn’t on my agenda.”
“Although a hookup is preferable to a relationship,” she clarifies, which really muddies things.
“I have a really good idea,” I say, picking up my beer and lifting it toward her. “How about we just start off with a good meal and a few beers and reevaluate where we are at the end of the evening?”
And I’ll never forget this moment because if I thought Stevie was beautiful before, she knocks the breath out of me now. Her smile engages every bit of her face—full lips, gleaming teeth, glittering eyes that are both relieved and playful—and I am lost.
She lifts her beer, taps it against mine, and says, “I’ll drink to that.”
I don’t say it out loud, but the one thing I know with certainty is at the end of the evening, I won’t need to reevaluate anything. I know I’ll want to see her again.
We sip our beers, and then I suggest, “How about we figure out what we want to eat, even dessert, so we don’t have to interrupt conversation again except to give our orders?”
“That sounds good,” she says, and we take a few minutes to peruse the menus. The waiter must be watching us like a hawk because we no sooner close them than he’s there.
We both order rib eyes, finding our first thing in common, and once the waiter is gone, Stevie lifts her glass. “I still need a full beer in me to answer your question about my mom. Tell me about your family.”