Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
On one hand I’m super fucking flattered he loved me so much that it didn’t matter what they’d think.
And on the other?
Why wouldn’t they like me?!
Am I too outspoken or abrasive?
Too shy?
Do I lack manners?
Is it a race thing?
Is it because I got a BA in business administration instead of something in the medical field?
Maybe my social class?
I mean Daniel came from money – and still has money since he’s an Orthopedic surgeon – while I didn’t, so perhaps they thought that’s all I was after in the beginning?
Which I fucking wasn’t.
Daniel having money wasn’t even something that really registered until it came to holidays when I’d give him something thoughtful and semi-expensive – like a Labyrinth Original Movie Poster First Issue from 1986, that he loved because he has a not-so-secret obsession with David Bowie – and he’d in return give me something like the necklace that bitch from Titanic threw in the ocean.
Okay, not actually – since that necklace doesn’t really exist – but shit in the same price range.
Expensive jewelry.
Expensive clothing.
Expensive vacations that weren’t fun and were practically meaningless given that only one of us was really not working while the other pretended he wasn’t answering emails or work texts or jotting notes for a paper to be published when he should’ve been licking mini marshmallows out of my belly button.
Honestly?
I often found our routine dinners of crabcake appetizers and perfectly cooked steak at Arthur’s to be the best moments of our relationship next to the ones in my office over coffee when we were both on call. It’s when he was the most relaxed. Most normal. It’s where I saw the man that’s still one of my best friends. The one I text about weird shipwreck reports that randomly appear in my newsfeed and tag along with to cocktail hours where you can ask paleontologists your deepest burning questions. He’s the guy I thought I was agreeing to spend forever with, not the man who struggled to make enough real time for us one week after we said I do.
And what’s strange is how post our divorce I probably see him more than I did when we were married.
What’s even fucking weirder is that our “magical” spot turned out to be truly magical by bringing Tate into my life.
Cripes, I shouldn’t be this…head in the clouds…which way is which over him, yet the first thought I have in the morning when he’s not in bed beside me is that I wish he was.
That he should be.
That he always should be.
Nat teases that it’s just the high of a new relationship, that everybody feels this way after only four weeks, that everyone gets in a little state of dicknosis, especially post a dry spell, but I don’t think that’s what happening to me.
Fuck that, I know it’s not.
It’s so much more.
I mean I’m already daydreaming about carrying his baby, something I didn’t even momentarily entertain with Daniel. Hell, we didn’t even discuss the idea of having children together. I don’t know if he just assumed I’d bring it up or I just assumed he had no interest since he never did or something else entirely. All I know is it never occurred, which is fine by me because the only person I can picture being the father of my kids is the one I’m with right now.
And I don’t think it’s “dicknosis” that has me whispering my boyfriend’s last name with my first, wanting it to be mine like a little girl asking Santa for just one thing this year.
And that’s really all I want.
And I know that’s insane after only thirty days with someone.
And I also know it’s the reason why I’m here, dressed in this godforsaken pink fringe top, floral printed pants trying to recreate an iconic look as Priscilla Presley to please the Elvis loving man I adore along with his Elvis loving parents at this random Elvis Convention in Applecourt.
After securing on our all-access bracelets, I loop my arm around his and playfully state, “I cannot believe you have actual blue suede shoes on right now.”
“What else would Elvis wear to meet his amazing fans, beautiful?” Tate teasingly pokes back as we make our way towards the barn of the I Love Jucy Orchard.
“You do know that despite the performance of a lifetime you put on in my Audi-”
“Thank you.” He gives the predictable lip sneer at the same time he finishes the trite impression. “Thank you very much.”
“You do know that you’re not really Elvis, right?”
“Come on, Priscilla.” His green eyes cut to me on a crooked grin. “Get into character. That’s important here. We talked about it remember?”
I remember not so cleverly getting mouth banged to “A Little Less Conversation” before I stuffed myself into these pants.
Half-heartedly abiding by his command while we cross the uneven terrain, I impishly inquire, “Exactly how many of these jump suits do you have just lying around your closet, Elvis?”