Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Come on.” Hector tugs my hand and drags me inside.
I follow him in, drop my stuff in the office, and get to work.
Hearing my cell phone ring, I reach out with my eyes still closed and pat the top of my bedside table until my hand lands on it. Picking it up, I squint one eye open, slide my finger across the screen, and then put it to my ear.
“Yeah?” I answer, half-asleep.
“You didn’t call,” Antonio says, his voice sounding rough. Like he just woke up.
“I told you I wasn’t going to call.”
“You get home okay?” he asks, ignoring my comment.
I sigh. “Yes . . .”
“Everything go okay tonight?”
“Yes.”
“All right, babe. Go back to sleep.”
He hangs up, and I pull my phone from my ear and stare at it.
“Babe? Now what the hell is that about?” I whisper my question into the dark, but of course get no answer in return. I drop my cell back to my bedside table, but it takes me forever to get back to sleep. The replay of Antonio’s deep voice calling me “babe” is on a continuous loop in my mind.
Hearing a knock on my apartment door early the next morning, I rush across to it, tying my robe as I go. I lift up on my tiptoes to check the peephole, then feel my heart start to beat a funny rhythm in my chest when I see Antonio standing outside. His head is turned to the left and tipped down like he’s looking at something. Glancing at myself in the mirror hanging next to the door, I cringe. My hair is a mess because I went to bed last night with it wet. There are bags under my eyes from not sleeping much. I look toward my bedroom, wondering in vain if I have time to put on some under-eye concealer or brush my hair.
“Libby?” he calls through the door, knocking again.
I jump. With no other choice, I open the door a crack and look out.
“Hey . . . ,” I say, hating myself a little for sounding as breathy as I do.
“Libby Reed, what is that man doing coming to see you this time of the morning?”
I wince, then poke my head out the door and look down the stairs. It’s Miss Ina, the old woman who lives on the first floor. She’s standing at the bottom of the steps dressed in a robe, her white hair flat on one side like she just woke up.
“Miss Ina, it’s okay. It’s just Antonio. You can go back to bed.”
“Go back to bed?” She plants her hands on her hips, and I sigh.
Until a few days ago, I’d never shared more than a handful of words with the woman—honestly, she scared the crap out of me. Then Mac befriended her and invited her to our parents’ house for Christmas dinner. It was during the drive to Long Island that I learned she’s actually kind of nice in a grumpy-old-woman sort of way. I’m also starting to figure out that she’s nosy. Okay, I already knew that she was nosy, but now that we’ve started to talk, she’s become even more nosy.
“I can’t go back to bed now that I know you’re going to be alone in your apartment with a man while you’re wearing nothing but a dressing gown.”
“Miss Ina, he’s just picking up a key. My virtue is safe,” I mutter.
Her eyes go to Antonio and narrow.
I peek up at him to see him fighting back a smile.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny, Princess,” he says, looking at me.
Rolling my eyes, I look down the stairs at Miss Ina. “He’s not even coming inside. You can go back to bed.”
“Fine, but I’ll be calling your mother about this later,” she says.
I don’t reply, just watch her hobble away with her walker.
Once she’s out of sight, I look at Antonio. “I’ll be right back.” I leave the door open a crack and go to my bedroom. I find his key in the jeans I had on last night. I grab it and head back to the living room, then stop dead when I find Antonio in my kitchen and the door to the fridge open.
“What are you doing?”
“I didn’t have a chance to have breakfast,” he tells me.
I blink at him.
“You didn’t have breakfast?”
“It’s only six. Nothing was open.” He shrugs, then looks into the fridge once more.
“Okay . . . so pick something up when you leave,” I suggest.
His eyes move back to me. “Why? I’m here now.”
“Antonio—”
“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, cutting me off.
I feel my head twitch. “No . . .”
“So I’ll make us breakfast while you get ready for work,” he states.
I stare at him, wondering if he’s been abducted by aliens. First he tells me I’m pretty, then calls me “babe,” and now he’s offering to make me breakfast?