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)
It also doesn’t matter that he thinks the way to my family’s hearts is through helping homeless cats.
Nope. Not one bit. That burn in the back of my throat and that sting at the back of my eyeballs? Not happening. I’m sure it’s not happening for my parents either. And I’m sure my brother doesn’t really like the new tablet or the new TV. Sterling was probably kidding about those things anyway.
“How did you get their emails?” I ask.
“I printed off every single one it generated, folded them up—they each come with a photo of the specific cat you helped save—and put them with the pile of stuff that got couriered over.”
“Gah. And snails? How do you know my mom has a thing for snails?”
“They were everywhere in the house,” he replies nonchalantly.
That makes it sound like my parents’ house has some kind of problem, but by everywhere, he means the décor. My mom has been collecting snails for a long time. Little knick-knacks and ornaments, stuffies, paintings, whatever we can find for her that is snails…we usually pick it up if the price isn’t crazy. A lot of her collection came from thrift stores and garage sales.
I don’t want to show him how touched I am or how hopeful I am that my parents and my brother will come around to this because I most certainly should not be hopeful, and what this is hasn’t even been defined yet. I want to put on my best ambivalent face, but I swear I fail.
“How’s Beans doing? Any change in his digestion yet?” he asks.
Ugh, damn it. He has to hit me right where it hurts. Right in the soft, feeling spots with all his masculine, nice guy, food-smothered, god-like body charm.
How is it possible to look that good at nine in the morning? I’m over here in an oversized sweater and leggings because it’s human and comfortable, and he’s all freaking red-carpet worthy. I mean, no one wears jeans to the red carpet, but I think they’ll all make an exception in his case, and jeans will suddenly become the new tuxedo the way forty is supposed to be the new twenty. I’ve been twenty. It wasn’t all that great. I hope forty is better.
That just makes me think of what life could look like ten years from now, which makes me feel all hot and bothered, fantastical and hopeful, and slightly depressed because I still don’t feel like any of this is real.
“Would it be okay if I came in? Or would you rather go out? We could have breakfast. Or take Beans for a walk and discuss the merits of probiotics that are hopefully working. We could talk about—”
“About what your real name is, where you live, what you do, your past, your life, your family, your history, and everything that led you to this point?” I can feel my right eye start to twitch.
I put myself out there yesterday with my family. I know if this doesn’t work out—and this is still pretty undetermined—they won’t rub anything in for me, but I’ll rub it in for myself. They now know I lied to them. Yes, they think this man drove me to do it, but they’re going to be confused and hurting for a good while yet, and they’re not going to trust me the way they used to. They’re not going to see me the way they used to, and okay, maybe that’s not entirely me being fair to myself because I know they’ll think about the sacrifice I made, but still. Maybe I’m being hard on myself. They won’t be hard on me. They love me. If this doesn’t work, they’ll be there for me. Now they know the truth, and it’s such a relief.
“Weland?”
I’m brought back to reality by the sound of my name said with perfect cadence, like a song.
“We can uh…take Beans for a walk.” I don’t know if I’m ready to share such a tiny space with this much hotness again. It’s kind of like crawling up into Satan’s arsehole itself, at least as far as the fiery, burning-from-the-inside-out factor goes.
“Alright. Do you want this?” He holds out the flowers and the chocolate.
Darn it, I do. I love flowers. And who doesn’t love chocolate? Somehow, he knew they were my favorite kind, and no, I don’t recall ever mentioning it to Smitty. It’s like the snails thing. Sterling notices things the way other people just don’t.
I grab the chocolate and flowers from his hands. Then, I give him the universal wavering eyebrow sign that means stay right there, please and leave the door open because shutting it in his face just feels rude.
My face is probably hotter than the inside of any arsehole as I get a big juice pitcher down for the flowers, fill it up, and then stick the flowers into it. I stash the chocolate in the pantry, slip Beans’ leash on, and get into my dog-walking runners, which have just been designated as such in the past few days of having a dog. They’re comfy, and they’re always going to be my go-to for walks, so I think it fits.