Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 744(@200wpm)___ 595(@250wpm)___ 496(@300wpm)
I obsessed over it all night, the why, the how, and the what the hell led us to that moment, but in the end, the answer was simple.
Crew is unpredictable. As kids, we all sort of sat back and waited to see what he’d do or say next. One day, he might say he hates wheat bread and the next, he was subbing out the white for it on his club sandwiches. Can’t stand a girl, and then out they’d come from behind the bleachers. Friends with a guy, and then punches him without sharing why. He keeps you guessing, and I’ve always enjoyed that about him.
Okay, that’s an outright lie. Sometimes it’s incredibly annoying, but whatever. Girls love a good mystery, so it’s probably why they all seem to love him.
That and the perfect skin, the muscles and the thousand other things I could tick off, but who has time for internal list making when the man consuming my mind is at my door, waiting for me to let him inside.
“You sure you want to come in, work more voodoo magic on me, ’cause I’ll warn you, I’m feeling a little empowered right now.”
He raises a dark brow. “Is that right?”
“It is.”
I shuffle out of the way, and he steps in, closing the door behind him.
“Do I want to know?”
“I doubt it.” I quickly move back to the stove, stabbing a small dough ball and nudge it off the butter knife with a fork, easing it straight into the small pot of boiling grease. “But basically, knowing I can put my hands on you and feel your hands on me without combusting, does a lot for the mind.”
In my peripheral, Crew’s head snaps my way, and when I look at him, his eyes are narrowed.
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I’m on board with the role you’ve chosen, but you’re like top tier, so if a man of your godliness can enjoy any part of me, even a tiny bit, then there’s hope somewhere.”
His frown seems to deepen, but a sigh shortly follows, and he comes to stand beside me, wordlessly rolling one of the fried donut balls in the bowl of sugar. “I can’t believe you still make these things.”
“Every Sunday.”
“So same as always.”
I love that he remembers the small stuff. “The cinnamon and sugar ones make the perfect breakfast and after-dinner dessert. Without mom’s treats in reach, these are a lifesaver after a craptastic day.”
Crew nods, and we finish off the last few batches in silence, easing into the cleanup as if we still do this together each week when the last time he made donuts with me was the summer before my senior year when he and Memphis came home for a visit.
The last visit they ever made.
Crew kissed me and never came back…
That was almost five years ago, yet he still takes the lead on the hot oil because I’m “clumsier than my mom after her Booze and Books Club,” or so he would always say.
“I don’t spill at work,” I tell him suddenly, and then I think about it. “Well, I don’t spill much at work. I can’t exactly serve a tray of drinks, thank the bank for the hostesses, but still… I’ve only spilled directly on a customer a couple times.”
I peek at Crew, and while his profile shows a slight quirk of his lips, he doesn’t say anything when I sort of think he might want to, but again, who knows with him.
“At the café the other day,” he begins after a few quiet moments, “you said you made a pros and cons list.”
The metal tray full of homemade donut balls slips from my fingers, hitting the edge of the countertop I was trying to move it to, and I jerk forward, saving a good handful with my shirt-covered stomach.
“Oh shit.” Crew flies over, quickly nudging the treats back onto the tray and easing it down on the counter.
Looking to him, I admit to the obvious. “Okay, so I’m as spill prone as ever.”
Crew’s expression speaks for him, a loud ass “you think” printed across his face, before bending to clean up the mess I made on the floor.
Careful as possible, I peel my top off and shake it out over the sink to avoid inadvertently inviting a trail of ants to move in.
“There goes tomorrow’s dessert.”
“There’s a solid three dozen left unscathed. Even you can’t eat all these in a day.”
We face each other at the same time, and instantly, his attention snaps to my chest. “What are you doing?”
“It has food all over it.” Duh. “And while I am almost certain I can easily eat three dozen in a day’s time, they aren’t all for me. I made a dozen for Jess as a sorry I bailed on you gift, and I was planning on tracking you down today and giving you a batch for old times’ sake, but now you’ll just have to share mine.”