Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Chapter Five
NORA
One good thing about saying mortifying sex stuff to a man I’m still not sure likes me as more than a friend?
It really takes the edge off the whole “climbing a slick ladder in the freezing cold rain” anxiety that would usually have me shaking in my boots on the way up to Matty’s treehouse.
Though, now that I’ve seen this place, “treehouse” feels like a misleading word.
“Treehouse” brings to mind visions of primitive forts in the backyard and picnics in the sweaty heat of summer, during which my friends and I spent as much time batting away mosquitos and ants as eating our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
This isn’t a treehouse like the ones I’ve known before. This is a cute little cottage hoisted into the air, complete with a kitchenette, a living area, and an adorable potbellied stove with a cozy fire already burning.
“And a view,” I murmur as I kick off my wet shoes by the door and wander slowly across the main room toward the large windows.
The trees on this side of the structure have been trimmed to reveal an unobstructed vista of the gorge, the river valley below, and softly rolling hills on the other side. Even in the rain, it’s stunning and oh-so-peaceful.
“I bet sunsets up here are something special,” I tell Clyde, who’s sprawled out on the old-fashioned rag rug in the center of the space, kneading the fibers with his claws as his eyes slide shut.
He’s clearly exhausted by the day’s events.
So am I, but I’m too soaked and chilly to lay down for a nap.
And too embarrassed.
Why did my mouth think mentioning “coming” with a man I’ve only kissed once was a good idea? I’ve never said anything like that in my life! I’m not a dirty talker. I never have been, not even with old boyfriends, who I dated for a really long time. Despite what my grandmother clearly assumes, I’m not a prude, but racy banter isn’t my forte. I prefer to show my spicy side in deeds, not words. It just feels less…awkward that way.
Though, considering that henceforth I’ll be known around Bad Dog as The Girl Who’s Afraid of Fornicating, it might be time to work on being less easily embarrassed.
“Eff my life,” I mutter as I head into the bathroom to the left of the front door, a small space with a dark green sink, a blue toilet, and a tiny pink shower, all at least half a century old. This mishmash of ancient artifacts clearly needs a remodel.
Pulling a towel from the garbage bag beneath the sink, I brainstorm ways to make the space absolutely darling.
As I spread my wet clothes out to dry on the floor, I decide that’s an excellent topic of conversation to pursue when Matty gets back from his cult-leader bunker. We’ll talk interior design and pretend that whole “coming” comment never happened.
That will probably be easier, however, if I’m wearing something other than a towel wrapped around my body. It’s a decent-sized towel, but the fact remains that I’m buck-naked underneath. The rain soaked through every stitch of my clothing, including my bra and panties, and I’m not about to walk around in wet underwear. That’s not comfortable or healthy.
Deciding that locating clothing before Matty gets back is a valid excuse for invading his privacy, I tiptoe into the small bedroom off the main room. It’s also the only bedroom, but I try not to think too much about that. There’s an old couch in the main room. It’s small, but the cushions are in decent shape. I can sleep there. I can sleep just about anywhere, a superpower I inherited from Gram, who I’m sure will be just fine on the recliner tonight until Aaron arrives.
Still, my grandchild guilt says I should text her and remind her that Starling’s big sister, Wren, is right next door and has offered to help out any time she needs it. But in the end, the irritable voice in my head is still miffed that my grandmother talked about my nonexistent sex life in public, so I leave my cell out on the kitchen table and move deeper into the bedroom.
I’ll text Gram later. Maybe.
If I can stop wanting to scream every time I think of that article hitting the streets in print tomorrow morning on Black Friday, the most popular paper day of the year.
In the bedroom, the full bed against the wall is covered with a big white sheet, but I can tell there’s an interesting headboard hidden beneath it. I’m curious but force myself to leave it alone. I’m here to get clothes, not snoop on Matty’s décor. I move directly to the bureau with the scarred gray paint job and the crooked mirror on top, wincing as I catch a glimpse of my hair. It’s already started to dry in wild, frizzy blond curls around my face, making me look like I was struck by lightning on my way in from the storm.