Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“What truth?” I counter.
“That you don’t know how to ride a bike.”
I scoff. “Shut up. I do.”
“It’s okay, Juliet. I can teach you. I like to teach.”
No kidding. His entire online persona centers on teaching listeners about emotions. “I’m aware, Love Doctor. But I didn’t think your emotional fluency includes how to bike,” I say, sassing him right back.
“Bikes can be very emotional, Juliet. They take us back to childhood,” he says, and he’s not dropping the routine, but the playful spark in his eyes reminds me he’s having fun.
“Then tell me your deep emotional scars from childhood caused by a bike,” I tease.
But the spark in his blue eyes shifts. Turns to something more vulnerable. That’s rare in Monroe, who stops a foot away from me now. “Well, I do have this scar.” He points to the faded scar on his chin, a pinkish white against his fair skin. “Courtesy of a Christmas gift ten-speed when I was five. I flew over the handlebars when I was riding on New Year’s Day. Landed face-first on the sidewalk when my mom was teaching me. Sliced my chin open. Needed to go to the ER for stitches. My dad stitched me up.”
Oh. Wow. He hardly ever talks about his mom. “How long did it take for you to get back on?”
“The next day. Thanks to my mom.”
I’m hungry for this story. “What did she say?”
“She said we could stop riding or keep trying. It was up to me.”
That’s kind of a nice story, and it’s also good advice—the up to you part. Sometimes we don’t truly make decisions for ourselves. Maybe even most of the time. “And you kept going?”
“Yes. And biking turned out to be my favorite thing to do in town,” he says, then stage whispers, “even if it ruined my blow-dried hair.”
I swat his very firm chest. Way for him to end an unexpectedly sweet story. “I just want to look good for my mom,” I admit.
“I’m just giving you a hard time. Let me change and we can drive.”
He wedges past me into the house. I catch a whiff of his scent. He smells like the shea butter and rosemary soap he bought that summer. My mind starts to meander back into the summer memories, but then I latch onto the words he’s just said.
Biking is his favorite thing to do when he’s in town.
Monroe isn’t an overly indulgent man. Yes, he likes his espressos. He enjoys his expensive scotch. And he likes his electric car. But he’s not demanding or needy. He doesn’t require a lot of watering.
Being here in Darling Springs can’t be easy for him with the memories of his mother and the reality of his father.
What’s a little sweat between co-workers? I turn around and call out, “If the helmet is pink, I’m in.”
The helmet is not pink. It’s fire engine red, and probably doing a number on my hair. But it turns out, The Ladybug Inn is only a mile away and the roads are flat, and my city girl mind was somehow—ridiculous, I know—imagining I’d have to crest hills and battle traffic on two wheels.
Instead, I’m enjoying the curving country road along the water, the sunshine warming my shoulders, and the sea breeze kicking up the ends of my hair. Soon, we’re pedaling up to the inn, remarkably undrenched. That wasn’t so bad after all.
After we lock the bikes on a rack painted with ladybugs, I unclip my helmet. Monroe side-eyes me. Oh shit. Am I wrong? Do I look like I’m a leading candidate for slots one through five in a top-five BuzzFeed Bad Hair Days list?
“What is it?”
He steps closer, lifts a hand, then says, “Your hair.”
I’m right. It is bad.
“Just a touch out of place,” he says, then smooths out an errant strand near my shoulder. A tingle spreads down my chest. Now I suddenly want every strand knocked wildly around my face so he can fix them.
One more stroke of his fingers. One more brush of his hand, then he lets go. “There.”
I catch my breath. My heart’s beating faster, especially when his eyes take a quick, furtive tour of me, then land on my neck. “No ladybug necklace?”
I half expect him to fiddle with the blingy heart one. I wholly want him to. “Not today. It felt too matchy-matchy. I’m pretty sure Mom picked this place anyway because of my ladybug phase.”
His smile is devilish. “You had a ladybug phase?”
I roll my eyes but at myself. “Yes,” I admit.
“Did you wear red with black polka dots all the time?”
“For a while,” I grumble. “I was in second grade…and third grade.”
His smile is infinite. “That’s—”
“Silly. I know.”
He holds my gaze. “I was going to say…adorable.”
The word comes out more sensual than its meaning. Adorable isn’t just for children when he looks at me. “Thanks,” I say, feeling unsteady in the stomach-flippy way.