Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
"And that is why people are supposed to eat at the - and I know this is such a foreign concept - dining table."
"You don't have room for a dining table," he objected.
"There is room to put that," I said, waving a hand to a white and gold console table. "I can just get a couple of chairs."
"And, what? Butt it up against a wall?"
"If I have to."
"You should have looked at more apartments."
"This one is fine," I insisted, grabbing one of the free-standing lamps, and putting it in the cart.
"You're compromising."
"Everything in this new life is going to feel a bit like a compromise for a while," I told him, shrugging. "But I will get used to it."
He shook his head at that, clearly not liking it. "Alright. I will have them bring me the couch, coffee table, and that fake dining table thing up to the front. Why don't you go pick out some dishes and shit?"
And, again, we went different ways.
In the end, I got basic kitchen things, bathroom supplies, a TV and Roku, some books, what few art supplies I could find, and some items for the pantry.
"I don't need anything here," I said when Gunner stopped his cart - since we each had one at this point - beside the women's clothing section.
"Yeah, you do, duchess."
"I have clothes."
"You have about a week's worth of clothes. And they're too fancy for running errands and shit."
"I used to... run errands and shit in these clothes all the time."
"In the city."
"I have other clothes."
"But I don't know how soon I can get them to you. Just pick out some shit. I promise that it won't make your skin melt off. Besides, I think some of this shit is like designer."
He wasn't wrong.
Big designers were getting more and more into retail markets.
It wasn't really about the name on the tag for me, just the quality, the style.
But, I decided as I took a deep breath, he was right; I needed more clothes. And I likely needed more laid-back clothes.
So then I spent nearly an hour picking out basics, shoes, and pajamas.
"Not a word," I told him as he gave me an almost pained look when I stopped to grab socks. "You were the one who told me to get clothes."
"I was wrong. Incredibly, impossibly wrong."
"It's too late now. You can't get the time back," I told him with a smile as we finally made our way to the check-out, claiming our bigger items, then pulling our cars up front to load it all in.
By the time we were done, there wasn't an inch of space in either of our cars, and we were heading toward my new apartment.
"I owe you dinner," I told him after we had finally hauled everything up, and he assembled what needed to be put together as I gave the whole space a good scrub.
"And dessert. And a drink," he agreed, reaching up to wipe some sweat from his brow, something I never would have found sexy before, but was finding it hard to stop myself from panting over right then.
"If I run to the market real quick, I can get the supplies to make you something."
I had a feeling it would be the last time I would ever have the chance.
I was settled.
That was the deal, right?
Get me here.
Get me a car and an apartment.
Help me fill it up with things.
All that was done.
His part was done.
There it was again, that pang.
Sharp, deep, insistent.
Ridiculous, sure.
But there.
I wondered how long I would have to live with it.
"Mind if I take a shower while you're gone?" he asked, looking tired and sweaty.
"Go ahead," I agreed, trying hard not to picture that. Failing epically. Then taking myself to the store to pick up supplies for dinner.
"Why am I seeing so many vegetables?" he grumbled at me when he finally came out of the shower, dressed in something he must have run down to his car for, jeans and a white tee that looked way too good stretched over his wide chest. "And no cheese?"
"Your arteries will thank me," I told him as I steadily chopped up four different colors of peppers, simply because I thought it would look pretty. "I'm making a beef stir-fry," I added, waving a hand to the wok we had picked up earlier where the beef was simmering, waiting for the other ingredients.
"Alright. You earn back some points for the beef," he told me, standing way too close, smelling way too intimate with my bath products sticking to his hair and skin.
"I also got alcohol, and I stopped by the bakery to get dessert. I don't have a lot of baking experience," I admitted, shrugging it off, but I was suddenly really sad about that fact. It was very Susie Homemaker, and therefore not at all like me. But I found myself wanting to bake for him.