Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Do you think you’ll return to editing? Or is there a list-making side of the publishing business you could go to?” I ask with a smile.
She smiles back. “Editing definitely. Making lists is about the extent of my writing skills.”
I arch a dubious brow. “I have to disagree. I think you’re selling yourself short. Your sister might have the romance-writing genes, but your chalkboard posts are pretty clever.”
Snorting, she waves a hand. “That’s just social media stuff. Besides, I love editing. I was a total bookworm as a kid.”
“The kind who brought a flashlight under the covers to read well past midnight?”
With softness in her gaze, she nods. “I had reading forts everywhere. We grew up in Wistful, Connecticut, and Hazel and I even tried to convince our dad to build us a tree house for reading.”
“And did he?”
Her fond expression vanishes. “He said once we mastered the four forms of the conditional tense, we could have a tree house.”
“Ouch. Sounds like a tough guy,” I say, but I suspect that’s an understatement.
“And he wonders why his marriage didn’t work out,” she says heavily, jaw tight. I could tell her my dad’s a prick too, but when Veronica resumes sweeping, she steers the conversation back to lighter grounds. “And were you under the covers with beakers and Bunsen burners?”
I laugh. “Full geek, Veronica. But, I did all the seed-in-a-jar and soil-testing experiments known to middle school.”
“Ah, the blooms part of Bikes and Blooms started early. And now you’re selling orange and coral roses to men who adore their wives and buy them lingerie.” Those green eyes twinkle again as they meet mine. “What if tomorrow is National Lingerie Day?”
Here we go again.
What if tomorrow is National This Will Be the Death of My Restraint Day?
I swallow past the desert in my throat. “Yeah, that sounds great,” I rasp out, closing the cooler door.
“What’s better for a Friday night? A romantic evening and a passionate night in,” she says.
“Nothing,” I say in a smoky voice that’s just shy of betraying my desire.
“Then let’s make it so.”
“By the power vested in you by the National Day Council, tomorrow is . . . Lingerie Day,” I say, like a declaration.
We set up the chalkboard outside and she writes the new tagline, then takes the photo. Back inside, she sends the pic to me, and I upload it in a draft.
“Do you want to write a caption? The others you did were pretty catchy,” I say. She’s shown she’s got a magic touch with words.
“What if we do something that makes it seem like we’re telling a story about a Friday night?”
“What do you mean exactly?” I ask, enrapt. She might be casting a spell on me already.
“Something about . . .” She glances over the bikes, but she seems faraway in her thoughts. “Friday is my favorite night of the week. Bring me flowers and when you come home, I’ll be wearing a little lace, listening to an undress-me tunes playlist. Make your Friday night the kind of night worth waiting all week for.”
When she turns back to me, her eyes have a dreamy look in them. I couldn’t see them on Monday night when she was on her balcony, but I know, without a doubt, that’s how she looked on her balcony.
She’s got this sensual energy about her. I can feel it wafting off her. It feels the same as when she talked into her phone into the summer night.
She’s Naughty Juliet.
And I am Too Hard Romeo.
“That’s really good,” I say thickly, my brain a storm of erotic images. “Sounds like a great Friday.”
“Mmm. It sure does,” she says, perhaps still a little lost in the haze as she takes my phone and types. My resolve crumbles a little more when I catch another whiff of her. “Is that . . . orange blossom?” I whisper.
She raises her face, those big eyes glimmering. “You have a very good nose, Milo.”
I would love to use it to learn all the flavors of her skin. But I have to resist.
I clear my throat, the sound a dividing line between my flirty alter ego and my reluctant monk. “I’m going to, um, finish that bike,” I say roughly, hoping my voice doesn’t give away where my body is at, and that my words don’t reveal the lie. I’m done with the bike.
But I fiddle with it, hoping it’ll take my mind off Veronica as she finishes closing up. When she’s done, I could make an excuse to stay, but I find myself leaving with her, and my dog.
After all, there’s nothing flirty about walking. It’s a practical activity involving placing one foot after the other.
Out on the street, I take one last glance at the sign advertising National Lingerie Day. I try to fight off the urge to talk about lingerie.