Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“I mean … I’ll just throw this out there and let you mull it over,” he says.
I lower my menu an inch.
“If you’re easy, I can probably be quick.”
Biting my lips together, I snort and retreat to the safe space behind my menu.
The waitress arrives at our table. I hand her our menus before she can ask if we’re ready to order. “Medium supreme, a pitcher of whatever your best beer on tap is, and an order of hot wings … the spicier, the better.”
She smiles. “You got it.”
Eric clucks his tongue several times. “Anna Banana … aren’t you full of surprises.”
I lean back in my chair and give him my best flirty expression that involves lip biting and my gaze lingering on his kissable … yup, I’m thinking it … kissable lips. If I can keep my mind off his regrettable taste in books, I can focus on things we can do to scratch itches and not ruin our neighborly relationship.
“My sister would love your grand gesture.” I nod to the flower stems.
“Oh?” Eric tilts his head. “Is that your way of saying I should be dating your sister?”
“Not even close. She’s married with two kids. But her husband buys her flowers all the time.”
“She loves flowers. I see.” He eyes the couple leaving the restaurant.
I laugh. “She hates flowers because he gives them to her all the time. Red roses, to be specific.”
“Poor guy. I bet he gives them to her, thinking that one day if he dies first, she will tell their grandkids how Grandpa gave her red roses, and every time he did, she fell in love with him all over again.”
“I love that you’re defending him.”
“I love that you’re having dinner with me tonight.” Eric Steinmann uses one of those industrial-sized push brooms to sweep me off my feet. “Do you have any other siblings that would love my grand gesture?”
“Nope. Just one sister.” I fiddle with the paper wrap holding my napkin and silverware.
“I’m envious. I’m an only child.”
“Because you were too perfect or a total terror?”
“You know the answer to that.” His eyes narrow.
“I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“Slept through the night from the day I was born. Potty trained myself a week later. First job by the time I was two …”
“Stop.” I giggle.
His contagious grin doubles like his far-fetched story of Super Baby. “Actually, I was eight weeks premature. My mom suffered severe postpartum depression. I did everything late in life … walk, talk, potty train, read, and make friends. Go figure. The couple, who never wanted kids, had an unplanned pregnancy and a difficult child.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Of course. How many should we have?”
Heat fills my cheeks. “No hand-holding. No first kiss. We’re just going to plan a family?”
“You’re a traditionalist?” His teeth drag along his lower lip while his chin dips into an easy nod. “That’s cool.” The legs of his chair screech along the floor as he stands.
My eyes widen while he leans over the small table, reaches for my hand, and gently takes it while he presses his lips to mine.
I freeze—all thoughts obliterated, next breath stolen, heart stilled.
He reverses just as quickly, taking a seat and scooting his chair toward the table. “I’d like at least two … and maybe a third one that’s unplanned—conceived in a moment of untethered passion.”
I slowly rub my lips together, feeling his kiss that reached far beyond my mouth.
“Have uh…” I’m breathless and incurably flustered “…you opened your shop?”
“You’d know the answer if you weren’t avoiding my cousin’s cafe—if you wouldn’t have given Freya the gift card.”
“Her fiancé lives in another country, and she’s not had sex in two years.” I forge ahead with this new subject because I have not and will not be formulating coherent thoughts about that kiss and our kids anytime soon. Or ever.
He coughs. “She might need more than a gift card for coffee.”
“For sure.” I laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear.
The waitress drops off our beer, and I watch her return to the counter to grab our plates and basket of wings. After she leaves again, I pour beer for both of us. “Do you have your apartment decorated?”
“Absolutely.” He brings his beer to his lips and smirks. “My mom sent a snake plant. I have a sofa and a coffee table.”
“You’re a minimalist. Nice.”
His laughter wraps around my chest, warm and comforting. “Bare minimum.”
“There’s a new antique store off Walnut Street. Want to check it out with me this weekend?”
“A second date?” His eyebrows lift.
I shrug, giving him my best coy expression.
“You probably should make a good inspection of my apartment before we go shopping for furnishings. Maybe after dinner, you could take a look around.” He cups his beer and drums his fingers on the table with his other hand.
And that look on his face? It says I’m in trouble. Eric Steinmann isn’t anything I’ll be able to quit without therapy.