Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I know, I know—you can’t just assume that kind of thing. Small guys can pack heat too, yes, but I’m not assuming. No, no, no. That first day Luke swam with Harper in the pool, my suspicion was confirmed. I saw the outline of it, y’know…beneath his swim trunks. I didn’t look for long—I’m classy, after all—so I merely glanced back at it five or six times to verify my findings were accurate. And they were.
At this point, any thought of Luke is accompanied by fluttering butterflies and flute-filled serenades. I’m in so deep there’s no going back.
But consequences are for the light of day, so I close my eyes and give in to the indulgence. This sweet pretending is oh so fun. I fall right back into that moment in the kitchen, only this time, it ends differently: Luke hugs me a little tighter, the air shifts between us. His hands grip my waist and, plop, he sets me on the counter so he can nestle himself right in between my legs. Then I—
Wait. What am I wearing? Not those jean shorts I had on earlier. A silky negligee. Yes. Black—no, red. Oo la la.
Luke compliments me on it. “Red is definitely your color.”
No, that’s not hot enough. That’s something my mom would say to me.
I try again.
“I like this lace, but I’d like it a lot better on the floor.”
Still not great considering it sounds like dialogue from an ’80s porno, but we’ll take it. Moving on.
He starts to slip my apron off. Apron!? Yes, apron. I would never cook in a negligee. That’s asking for trouble.
But tonight, in my fantasy, whatever, I make an exception. No apron. Luke slips the straps of my red negligee off my shoulders, kissing a path down my neck as he does it.
Oh, this is getting good.
In real life, my hand finds its way underneath my covers, but I have a hell of a time undoing the knot on my pajama pants. I have to sit up and use two hands, and by the time I get it, I’ve lost the thread of my story. Were we on the counter or the floor?
Counter. Red negligee. Luke’s mouth on my neck, now my chest. Yes.
Knock-knock.
“Crap.”
I sit up in bed as a little fist taps on my bedroom door again.
“Chloe?” Harper asks with a timid voice. “I’m hungry. Could you make me a snack?”
My hand is literally down the front of my pants.
I yank it out.
“Uh…uh…” I’m looking around for something, but there’s nothing to find except my freaking common sense. “Sure! Yes! Just give me a sec.”
I go into the bathroom and thoroughly wash my hands, unable to look up and meet my reflection in the mirror. I’m so embarrassed. I was just fantasizing about her dad! HER DAD! Surely I have more dignity than that. Narrator: Unfortunately, Chloe does not have more dignity than that.
I walk back out into my bedroom as I double-knot the front of my pajama pants. There, it’s like Fort Knox down there. No more dreaming of Luke for me.
I open my bedroom door, and there’s Harper in her cupcake-patterned pajamas with her ratty stuffed unicorn tucked up underneath her arm. Her sleepy brown eyes have never looked more doe-like and innocent.
I tuck her against me as we head back toward the stairs. “I can fix you whatever you’d like. What sounds good?”
Sunday morning, I make breakfast while Luke works out in the facility he has out back. Then while Harper and Luke set up shop at the lemonade stand, I stroll through a farmers’ market in town and pick up a ton of fresh organic produce. It’s the season of abundance, and I can’t wait to put everything to good use.
Harper and Luke actually have customers when I return. Two little blonde girls are passing cash over to Harper while their mom talks to Luke. Oh wait, she’s not talking. She’s hand-twirling-hair, teeth-biting-lip flirting with him.
I nearly slam on my brakes to get a longer look at them together. Why does the sight of it shock me so much?
Oh right, because Luke and I have existed in a weird microcosm of real life. I’m sure women throw themselves at his feet on a daily basis. My experience (i.e. crushing on him hardcore) is not unique, so it seems. I feel oddly sad to realize I’m just one of many.
Harper waves at me as I drive by the lemonade stand at a snail’s pace (for safety reasons, I swear), but Luke doesn’t look up. He’s apparently enthralled in his conversation.
No matter. I throw myself into my cooking. I lay out everything I procured from the farmers’ market and grab my recipe books. I have a few tried-and-true favorites: Ina Garten’s The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook; The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters; and lastly, a stained, creased, truly on its last leg compilation of Italian recipes from Nonna.