Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“It is an amazing gift,” I say.
“It sure is. It feels unreal.” As if testing the integrity of it, she walks toward the wall and raps on it. “Looks like the expensive structural work is done. It’s far enough along to be functional quickly but not too finished yet.”
“It’s got good bones,” I acknowledge. “But there’s probably not even running water, so no need to play nurse with the cat wound. I’m all good.”
She snaps out of her decorating haze. “Hey. I didn’t argue when you wanted to clean my hair.”
“Really? You call what you did not arguing? You said, and I quote, ‘Look, I appreciate the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing you have going on. It’s on brand and all. But you don’t have to stay. I can clean myself up.’”
She gives me an overly appreciative smile. “You memorized my words. Impressive.”
If she only knew how she was lodged in my brain. “Thank you. I am pretty impressive. Which is why you don’t need to bandage me.”
She hoists her backpack strap higher. “C’mon, tough hockey player. Good news is there’s a bathroom. Which is great because one of my life’s mottos is Yay for indoor plumbing.”
“What do you know? That’s one of mine too.”
“See? Good team,” she says.
I’m not ready to agree to that. Instead, I tip my chin toward her. “So, pickleball?”
She juts out a hip. “What? I don’t look athletic?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you liked…playing sports.”
“Oh please,” she says with a scoff. “I don’t.”
“But you play pickleball?”
“For the fashion. The outfits are so cute.”
Does not compute. “You took it up for the clothes?”
“Of course. I have a whole collection of thrifted dresses. Some with ruffles, some in gingham, one has a super-cute preppy collared top. They’re all ridiculously adorable.”
I don’t get it. How do you play a sport for the fashion? “Do you just…model on the courts?”
“I play. Badly. Like most people,” she says, then motions to the doorway.
I leave that perplexing conversation behind as we push through an open doorway leading toward the back of the house. And yup. Strip club for sure. This room has been half outfitted as a dressing room, with makeup tables in front of mirrors framed by lightbulbs. The kitchen is on the other side, where the afternoon light streams in through a window above a big farm sink. “Not sure what the plan was—maybe they were going to serve wings and mozzarella sticks in the club?”
“Sticks and dicks,” she offers.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “That’s a terrible name for a strip club. I’m not sure I want to know what you’ll name a bakery.”
“Just you wait. I’ve been letting some ideas percolate.” She waves to the kitchen. “I know you’ve been waiting for me too. But I’ll check you out soon,” she says affectionately…to the stove.
It’s distractingly adorable that she’s talking to an appliance.
And I cannot get distracted, so I move past her, turning the corner into the bathroom. When I switch on the tap, nothing happens. It just spurts air. “See. I was right. No water.”
She pats the backpack. “I have hydrogen peroxide. And listen, tough guy, your back is covered in blood, and you’re not on the rink. Let me help.” Echoing my words from yesterday, she adds, “That work for you?”
I heave a sigh but relent. “Fine.”
I close the lid on the toilet and sit down, grumbling for good measure.
She squeezes my shoulder, and it feels better than a shoulder squeeze should. But I stay stoic as she says, “I know, I know. You’re so tough. Still, let’s clean you up. I get that you’re in love with your gray shirts but make like a Sticks and Dicks dancer and strip.”
Cracking up, I drag a hand down my face. “Mabel, you missed your calling. You really should open that strip club. Are you trying to tell me something? Is that what you really want us to do?” I reach for the hem of my shirt and peel it off, getting a good look at it. Shit. It is streaked in blood. That cat did a number on my back.
When I glance up, though, Mabel’s frozen. She hasn’t responded. She hasn’t fired back. Instead, her eyes are locked on me—my chest? No, it’s the abs she’s gawking at. Or could it be the biceps? Wait. Seems it’s the forearms now.
Well, how about that? Might as well help her out, give her a better look. Blowing a lazy breath, I sit a little taller, stretch my arms over my head, and give her a full view of whatever she wants.
Several seconds later, she seems to blink the fog out of her eyes, her voice a little gravelly as she says, “I’ll…um…so…”
This just got real interesting. Even though nothing can happen between us, my ego and I sure like knowing she wants something to. “Cat got your tongue?”