Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
There isn’t any other choice.
And I need to leave. As in, five minutes ago. As in, I never should have been here. I never should have gotten out of that cab. I never should have come here myself. It was impulsive. I can’t even explain what was going through my head besides sheer panic. And a little bit of humanity, I suppose. Hearing that the person who bailed your ass out is miserable doing it isn’t a good feeling. People think having money means being heartless, but I didn’t come from anything at all, and that’s why it’s so important for me to stay where I am and hold on to what I’ve built. Because I’ll always remember where I came from. And I do have a heart.
The smart version of me walks out the door. The smart version finds Weland and tells her that I have an emergency and to have a good night. The regular version of me that I am twenty-four fucking seven gets up and leaves right now.
But this version, this imposter I don’t know and don’t have a clue about, walks over to the kitchen, finds those cookies, pops the lid, and takes one out.
This imposter takes a bite and, yup, gets thrown straight back to his childhood because it tastes just like “mom” cookies.
They’re a trap—“mom” cookies. From what I remember anyway, and I barely remember, but the memory is a potent one. I can’t leave now. I’m in too deep. I’ve lost my chance.
I need another cookie.
All I’ve wanted my whole life was just one more “mom” cookie.
I need another Weland smile. Unlike the cookies, seeing another smile is possible.
I need to know that, beyond a doubt, she’s going to be okay.
And that’s the real reason I can’t just walk out the door.
Chapter five
Weland
While I walk Beans, I realize something.
I’ve never had someone. Sure, I dated in high school and on and off in college, but it was more of a light version of that. Did I ever think to myself that the boyfriend I had at the time was my someone? Someone I could depend on and rely on? No. Never.
I have a husband, but he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t care about me. He’s not my person, a safe person, the person I turn to when everything goes wrong. He’s never seen me cry. He’ll never see me cry, and he’ll never hear me laugh. He’s never had the good moments or the bad moments, the pretty or the ugly. He’s had nothing and none of it, and he never will, and darn it if that doesn’t make me feel even more alone than I’ve been feeling.
No, I’m not trying to rationalize anything. I know asking Sterling to come in was a mistake. As in, I shouldn’t have done it because of the contract. Because I made a commitment to a piece of paper and a person at the other end of it, and just because I don’t know his real name or anything about him doesn’t mean I can just do whatever I want.
When I get to my doorstep, I decide I’m going to have to tell him to leave.
But when I walk in the front door and let Beans off his leash, he goes bounding right for the super hot stranger in my kitchen who bends down and scratches his head while stuffing a cookie into his mouth with his other hand and making a grunty, sexy sound low in his throat that gets all sorts of raw interest stirring inside me, and I can’t help it.
I change my mind. Truth is, I don’t want him to leave.
We can just talk. We can talk and be friendly, and I won’t be alone, just for a few hours. Tonight was supposed to be about that. About me having fun with friends, having fun with someone who I used to have so much in common with that I called her my bestie. Instead, it ended with me being forgotten and left behind and not even knowing what club they’d gone on to next. As far as signs go, that’s a big one. And maybe this stranger is another.
Signs might be up for debate, but here are the facts. I was alone. And now I’m not alone anymore.
“How was your walk?” he asks as he finishes the cookies and licks his fingers. The sight of his tongue coming out and licking melted chocolate off his digits shouldn’t do anything to me, but it makes me feel primitive and wild in my digit. That’s right. Single digit. And no, it’s not my finger or my big toe.
“I—errrr…” Great, now I’m not capable of speaking. “Good,” I murmur. I decided to tell you that you have to leave. But now I can’t, so that’s not good. Yet it feels good to not say the words.