Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
After glimpsing the glass of water I hadn’t touched on the bar, I snagged it and dumped it on Andrew’s shirt. The ice fell over my shoulders, and some of it splashed down my neck, but I’d achieved my goal, and Andrew released me, so I leaped off the stool and stumbled to the ground. Picking myself up, I fumbled for my purse while Andrew cursed, and then I sprinted toward the swinging glass doors at the front.
I couldn’t understand why that had happened. I dug out my phone with shaking hands, and my fingers trembled over the screen. I could barely make out the apps but managed to get an Uber.
I felt like I’d just killed my chance for a job I’d just been hired for but wasn’t sure how it had happened or why. Even if the job was still open, did I want it now? Would there be strings attached? I hadn’t thought Andrew was like that, but until I wrapped my mind around what had just happened, I wasn’t sure what the right thing was.
This wasn’t how I wanted my career to begin. This wasn’t how I wanted my time in Dallas to close.
Chapter 18
Ryan
“How were those pancakes?” I asked, gesturing toward the mashed breakfast left on my son’s plate.
James’s grin filled his face while his sticky hands thrust before him as if to show me what triumph looked like. “Delicious!” he said with a jerk of his head. I laughed and reached over with a napkin dipped in water.
“You sure made a mess with those delicious pancakes.”
His head jerked in a nod again, and I fought his movements to clean his face. I cringed when the syrup touched my finger but gave up when he started laughing. He was playing me.
“Dude, you need to sit still.”
“I like the mess!” he called out, forcing me to look around the restaurant for glaring stares.
“You sure do,” I said softly, “but if you’re messy, we can’t go do the next thing.”
His still-wobbling head stopped for a moment as he considered the gravity of what I’d said. I offered a challenging smile and waited a moment until it looked like he understood what I meant. “Are we getting ice cream?”
I belted a laugh that came without warning, and his small giggle filled me with more joy than I’d felt in a long time. He was an angel, if there ever was one, and somehow, he was in my life. “Boy, are you ever full?”
He shook his head again, his red hair a blur.
“Maybe next time we’ll get ice cream, but I was thinking that maybe . . .” I leaned forward, dodging the syrup spread around his plate, and offered my best conspiratorial face. “Maybe you could help me pick out a new house.”
He smacked his hands over his mouth. “Your house, Daddy?” he whispered. “We can’t go to your house.” The garage “house” where I lived was off-limits to him.
I nodded and pretended to consider the problem. “Well, that’s why we have to pick a new house. If we do, then you can even stay the night. Would that be cool?”
“Yes!”
“Yeah!” I offered a high-five, and he smacked my hand and left behind a film of syrup. “Aw, crap. Crud. Sorry,” I said while looking up, but he was giggling away, knowing he’d made a mess on daddy. Very funny.
I dipped my napkin in the water and wiped it off, though my hand still felt disgusting. After calling the waitress and asking for the check, I pulled out my wallet and enough cash to cover the bill and the tip.
“Here, let’s go wash our hands before we leave,” I said after handing it and the receipt back to the waitress. I helped James out of his booster seat and noted the smeared syrup stain on his bright-blue dinosaur shirt. I didn’t have a key to the house, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to go back and risk ending our fun too soon.
We made it to the bathroom, and I propped up my knee before lifting James to sit on it so he could reach the sink himself. When he bounced like I was giving him a ride, I pulled his hands forward a bit toward the sink.
“I’ll turn it on.”
“Mommy uses wipies.”
“I don’t have wipies. We’re gonna wash our hands.” I pulled his hands toward the running water, but he jerked them back again and shook his head. “Soap first!” He thrust his sticky fingers toward the soap dispenser.
“It doesn’t . . .” I sighed. “Okay, here.”
After I finally cleaned him up, I wiped down his shirt with a wet paper towel and fought my nerves when he started crying that his shirt was wet.
“It’ll dry in the sun,” I tried, but he wasn’t having it. He pulled his shirt away from his chest as if he hadn’t just been happily covered in syrup.