Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
I can’t deny the man also knows how to fill out a suit. A tailored midnight-blue suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie only adds to his appeal. I’d like to think I’m above leveling another person to nothing more than some sexy savior, but clearly, I’m not. Loch Westcott is the kind of hero I wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers. The crumbs would totally be worth it.
Wonder if he’s the type to eat crackers for a late-night snack . . .
“Tuesday?”
There’s that name again . . . “Sorry, I got lost in thought.” He has my mind tumbling into the gutter when I need to focus on what I’m supposed to do with my life while I try to figure out who I am and where I belong.
Loch’s expression contorts as if I’m a New York Times crossword puzzle he can’t figure out. I get it. I feel just as confused.
Clearing my throat, I use the distraction to stop myself from staring at him, and reply, “I guess I’m Tuesday.”
The corners of his eyes soften though I don’t mind the whiskers that have started digging into his skin there. It’s really unfair that men age so handsomely.
“At least that’s the name you told the barista, and what everyone has been calling you.”
My bones stiffen in defense, and I shift my weight to my right foot, unsure what to say or do, and still wondering why he’s here. It seems like I don’t have anyone else, but why is this stranger so interested in me? “Why are you here, Loch?”
“Because I can’t leave you—”
“Leave me? I thought we just met yesterday?”
“We did.”
I swing my hand in front of me and then flip it over. “A chance encounter at a coffee shop doesn’t make me your responsibility. You don’t know me much less owe me anything. You’ve already done so much, too much.”
“Just because we don’t know each other doesn’t mean I can leave you to fend for yourself. Your bag was stolen, and you don’t remember anything. You have a concussion and amnesia.”
He’s said the word I’ve been avoiding. At some point, it had become unavoidable. That point is now. “I do have amnesia.” I feel nauseous. I wrap my arm over my stomach, realizing saying it makes it reality.
“My mother would kill me if I left someone stranded instead of helping.”
He’s living up to the knight in shining armor the nurses made him out to be. But why is he? “Other than bonus points with your mom, what do you gain from helping me?”
“Gain?” he asks as if the word itself is offensive. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his pants, he looks down at his feet, and then his lips tighten. “I don’t gain anything that I’m aware of. I’m here because I think you need someone. Do you have anyone?”
I don’t know what he’d be gaining either, so I understand the lack of an easy answer. Despite his attractiveness, something about his stance with me is unguarded—shoulders straight but with an ease within his body, the eyes, and even the lack of contrived answers give me comfort. Wouldn’t someone wanting something be ready for the task in the moment that counts most?
This seems like a prime moment to take what he wants. I probably wouldn’t even know better. But he doesn’t. He just owns the answer he’s given and leaves me the stage to ask more questions. I don’t have more, though. I don’t have much of anything.
Biting my lip, I’m still trying to read between the lines, worried I’m missing something obvious when he says, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I guess I just needed to see you with my own eyes. I needed to know you were okay.” His hand falls out of his pockets, and he glances back at the SUV.
A lump has formed in my throat at seeing him slip away from me—his gaze, his kindness, his proximity. He takes a step back and checks his watch. “I should be in court.”
“Court? What did you do?”
He chuckles, and it’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him. “Fortunately, nothing. I’m an attorney.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” I cover my mouth, realizing a second too late that could be construed as rude.
“My brother jokes the first word I spoke was objection, so yes, you’re not the first to say I fit the job.”
“It’s the suit,” I add, hoping to keep it light, “and maybe the formality of how you carry yourself.” It’s too late to worry if he has ulterior motives. He’s the only one who knows me from before the mugging and the only one who has shown he cares. Well, other than Belinda, but she can’t take home every victim that comes through the hospital doors. “Loch?”
His full attention weighs in his eyes as he looks into mine. I continue, “You’re the only person who knows anything about me.”