Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I smile, though it’s hard to meet his eyes fully because Sawyer’s wearing another nice button-down today. This version of him is strangely intimidating. “That’s nice of you, but I’m not too hungry. What with all the treats you left at Queenie’s for breakfast…” I point to the tray of scones and muffins near the Keurig. We haven’t even put a dent in them.
“Well…” He plops the lunch bags on the coffee table near the front couch. “Maybe just a little something then. You need to keep your strength up. I brought a burger from Cactus Cafe, and if that doesn’t interest you, I also grabbed a salad from the deli. I saw Queenie and Marge over there. Marge was showing off your new compression socks to everyone.”
I laugh and walk over to him, if only to steal a French fry out of the Cactus Cafe bag. They sprinkle the best seasoning salt on their fries. Sawyer unwraps the burger and cuts it in half, and then adds dressing to the salad. It’s homemade ranch, aka my kryptonite. I wonder if he asked Queenie for my order details. He must have.
“I told Marge she could break in the socks. I don’t think they’re something I’ll need until I’m much further along in my pregnancy, if I’m even pregnant…” I feel like I need to point this out before we get too wrapped up in this fantasy we’re playing at.
Sawyer nods, trying to conceal his frown as best as he can. Is he truly as hopeful about this as I am?
“Are we totally crazy?” I ask him with a bewildered smile. “When I told you everything yesterday, I expected you to pass out.”
“Yeah, well I’m thirty, not nineteen… I’m good if you’re good.”
“I’m good.” I nod confidently.
With that, he hands me half of the burger, taking the other half for himself, and we share lunch together on the couch. I regale him with my plans for organizing the office, and he volunteers himself for cleanup duty anytime I need it. It’s such a nice conversation among friends. I barely have a hard time maintaining eye contact when his dark gaze lingers on me. I only glance at his lips and suppress the urge to kiss him say, half a dozen times. We’re friends! Friends feel nervous around each other. Friends blush when their hands accidentally brush while reaching for a French fry. Relax, everyone! We’re friends!
I stand by what I told him yesterday. We’ve had an extremely strange start to our situationship. Me toying with him on Kendra’s behalf, him finding out through Charlotte, our drunken makeup, our brush with law enforcement, and now a potential little one on the way. The brakes have been pumped and locked. Though I’m sorely tempted, I am not going to suggest we toss these burgers aside and cap this lunch off with an afternoon delight on Luellen’s old couch. But to be honest, I deserve an award for my restraint.
Sawyer’s still with me when Queenie and Marge return. They take one look at us and their expressions turn wholesome and sweet.
“Look at them,” Marge says to Queenie.
“Too cute for words, I know.” Then Queenie smiles, snapping her fingers as if she’s just remembered something. “Actually, it’s a good thing you’re both here! Marge and I were chatting at lunch and we’ve got the perfect names picked out for, you know…the potential baby.” She mouths the last word like she’s not supposed to say it out loud.
I for one don’t want to encourage her, but Sawyer’s all too happy to play along.
“Let’s hear ’em.”
Marge and Queenie smile at each other, then Queenie responds, “If it’s a boy, Anvil.”
“Anvil!?” I cry.
“And if it’s a girl, Mackynzee. Spelled M-A-C-K-Y-N-Z-E-E. How cute is that?”
Sawyer coughs to cover up his laugh. “I’m speechless,” he forces out while clearing his throat.
“I know! They’re so good! Tell them where we got the names,” Marge says, giddy with excitement.
“Anvil and Mackenzie are the two main characters in our next book club read, His Tortured Delights. It’s a romance about a widowed school teacher and an underground UFC fighter who happens to be”—Queenie waggles her eyebrows like she’s trying to drum up anticipation—“a billionaire.”
I’m already up on my feet, walking away from their nonsense.
Marge shouts after me. “Don’t you want your baby to grow up to be a billionaire?!”
The second half of the week flies. Bills, invoices, payroll, and our messy office get pushed aside—we’ve been completely consumed by Amber and Michael’s wedding this Saturday at Starlight Vineyards. There are no less than a dozen vendors working in tandem to pull it off. By Thursday morning, a drapery company has transformed the simple walls and ceilings in the tasting room with endless bolts of gorgeous blush-toned silk. New antique chandeliers have been temporarily installed above a custom dance floor with the couple’s interlocking initials. On Friday afternoon, I’m overseeing the furniture delivery.