Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Like her boobs.
Fuck, I need to get my sister out of my house. Love them to death, but they gots to go.
Is there nothing I can do to get my sister to leave? She’s obviously getting the hint; she’s just not taking it, enjoying this way too much. If Penelope and Skipper want to get me married off so badly, perhaps they should give me privacy instead of meddling and wanting to watch me make a muddle of things on my own.
I don’t actually need their help—I tend to do just fine with the ladies on my own, but for some reason these two feel the need to facilitate my romantic situations. For example, any time we go to the grocery store as a trio, my sister will make a show of using the word brother instead of my name, or practically shouting the word niece at full volume if there is a woman nearby.
“Women love babies and puppies,” she has told me in the past. “It’s like chick magnets. Work with what God gave you—an adorable niece.”
Yeah, yeah.
How about she takes some of her own advice, considering she’s single and claims she’s ready to mingle. Penelope hasn’t been on a date in…well, it’s been longer for her than it has been for me.
What a fine pair we make.
I take care of her and she takes care of me, but right now, I want to talk to Juliet alone.
Reluctantly—ever so reluctantly—the girls finally leave, Penelope watching me over her shoulder as she exits the room, practically needing to shove my niece along to get her out.
Little scamp.
“So that was my sister…” Not that I need to give her an explanation—they’re the ones that found Juliet outside the house and let her in.
“She looks just like you.”
“Does she?”
“Practically twins.”
“Except for the height and the voice.”
Juliet concurs. “Same hair, same smile, same twinkle in your eyes.”
“I have a twinkle in my eye?” That’s news to me; at least, no one has ever told me that. “That’s fun.”
“A twinkle in your eye is fun?”
“Sure. It’s very…Santa like.”
Juliet laughs. “Dear lord, don’t compare yourself to Santa.”
“Why not?”
Her lips press together; instantly I know she’s thinking something naughty.
“Say it.”
Juliet shakes her head.
“Come on, say it.”
Hesitantly, she sighs and leans her body against my countertop. “No one wants to bang Santa Claus.”
Bang.
Screw.
“I’d say come again so you repeat that, but it would just sound pervy considering we both know I heard you the first time.”
Juliet rolls her eyes, amusement dancing there.
Good, I’m glad she’s entertained, beats her being offended by my off-color comment. Yeah, I can be immature sometimes, but what dude isn’t?
I go around the counter to the sink, nervous to have her in my space and in my home—seeing her out of place, i.e., not in the woods—seems surreal. Different.
For starters she’s wearing a dress. She must have worn it to work today because it’s a little more playful than serious, with hearts on the skirt and bright pink top. She’s tied a sash around her waist and on her feet? Pink high heeled shoes. Juliet’s hair is done up in a sleek ponytail and she has on large gold hoop earrings. Totally gorgeous.
Jeez, half the pre-teenage boys in her classes must have huge crushes on her—I know I would have.
The past few nights I’ve had a dream or two about the hot little teacher. Sure, one of two of them may have included bears, but waking up with a raging boner with Juliet’s face on the brain isn’t the worst way to wake up.
“I see that your eyebrow is growing back in.”
I reach up to touch it with a smirk on my face. “Yeah—not to brag, but I have hair there now.”
Not a ton of it, but at least I’m not lopsided anymore and my hair is dark, so it’s obvious that new growth is happening. Basically my brow has five o’clock shadow…
“You don’t have to enter rooms backwards anymore,” she teases.
“I’ve had to enter a few rooms this week, and let me tell you, having to retell the story over and over was like swallowing humble pie.” There’s nothing worse than explaining to grown men—professional athletes, both men and women, all of whom say whatever is on their mind—how in the hell my eyebrow was burnt to a crisp.
“Wait wait wait—tell me that one more time,” Darnell Pruit had begged during the meeting we were having about his retirement and investments.
“Darnell, I didn’t fly all this way to talk about my eyebrow.”
He was fixated on it.
“I burnt one of mine off once, but I was fourteen and it was at a house party. Not squatting around a damn campfire, man.” He’d whooped and hollered at my story, essentially calling me a pussy, though not in those exact terms.
“Can we move on?” I’d shuffled and reshuffled the papers.