Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Who’s falling apart on me on the train as we reach the top of the mountain.
And I follow her there with a bitten-off grunt as pleasure rushes through me, blurring my brain, making me think only of her.
But then, that’s pretty much how it’s been lately.
37
THE LOVE SHACK
ISLA
“Did my parents send us to a love shack?” I hold up a stop-sign hand. “Don’t answer that.”
“Yes,” Rowan says, disobeying me as he sets my suitcase down by the front door of the cottage a few blocks off Main Street.
The centerpiece of the living room is a comfy red sofa, home to a mountain of pink and white pillows. Romance novels are scattered on the coffee table. Artwork hangs on the walls—line drawings of couples in various states of embrace. An electric fireplace waits for someone to flick it on. Soft mood music plays from a speaker somewhere, and it sounds like John Legend, maybe.
I shake my head. “I know my mom wanted to set me up, but I didn’t know she wanted to sex me up.”
Rowan loops an arm around my waist. “Nah, you did that yourself, sweetheart. I’m just that irresistible.”
I turn around and give him a hard stare. “I see you’re still cocky,” I tease, but even as I say it, I’m keenly aware of why I’m teasing him.
Banter is our language.
One-upmanship is our game.
And I can’t speak for him, but it’s also my crutch when I feel…vulnerable. I’d like to think I’m as good at being open as I encourage my clients to be, but these last few weeks have exposed my own defenses to me.
Games protect me from my fears.
Right now, I have one big, beating fear.
What comes next?
We got a bite to eat after the train, popping into the Candy Cane Diner. Now it’s late, and it’s the natural time for a date to end. Will he say the place looks great, then goodnight?
And if not that, what do I want him to say?
Even as he returns the volley with, “And you like it that way.” I still don’t know the answer.
Instead of responding, I explore the little rental, checking out the bathroom with a simple stall shower, then the bedroom with a queen-size bed, and, of course, a heart-shaped headboard.
I groan. “I feel triggered.”
Rowan’s behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and whispering, “I think your parents are like my teammates. They like pranks.”
Maybe he’s right. I smile, thinking of the ways my parents joked with us when we were kids.
“They once pretended they bought a horse-drawn carriage for us to get around town, going so far as to bring home a brochure for one, and they even loaded us up in the car to go see it before they told us the truth. They also claimed Santa only came if kids made cookies for their parents. And of course, they started all the ‘build the best blanket fort’ challenges,” I say, recalling.
“Mia and I have joke contests,” Rowan says softly.
“Yeah?” I knew she liked jokes, but didn’t know they went so far as to have contests.
“She loves games. No surprise, right? She left out a trail of clues for her book Advent calendar idea,” he says, then talks about Mia and books and puzzles. I’m hearing the words, but also the feelings behind them.
And that’s when I know what I want him to say.
So I say it instead. I turn around, even though my stomach is flipping relentlessly. “Do you want to stay the night?”
I forgot how intimate it is, spending the night with someone. It’s been a year since I was last with a man. But I also made every effort to erase all interactions with JD from my mind—not only the hurt and shame I felt when I learned the truth, but also the day-to-day stuff. How he took his coffee in the morning. What side of the bed he wanted.
Now I’m in the bathroom, having just brushed my teeth, and I’m staring into the mirror wondering: do I go through my elaborate skincare routine? I have it with me—Mom packed it up. But do I use my night cream, serum, and under-eye moisturizer? It takes a while, of course. One does not simply rush skincare.
My stomach twists. What was I thinking, inviting him over?
You weren’t. Your hormones were.
Fine, that’s true. But also, I didn’t want the night to end. Now I’m wondering if I thought this through. I stare longer, like I can find the answer in the mirror as I scrutinize my skin.
And I do find the answer.
Rowan’s not the only one with walls. I have mine too—my routine, my lists, my notebooks, my organization. My on-top-of-everything-ness, including skincare.
I don’t like to deviate from my routine either.
But maybe I should tonight.
Turning on the faucet, I scrub off my makeup quickly, pat my face dry, then apply night cream. My fingers itch to open the other lotions and potions, but I resist. Wearing my cami top, my snowflake lounge pants, and my matching fuzzy socks, I pad out of the bathroom.