Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Fruitcake,” Bella echoes, giggling.
I snort again, amazed that I still have a sense of humor, considering my nipples are stinging painfully against my soaked shirt, while my leg throbs like a thumb with a splinter under the nail.
Even my arm hurts, aching more than it has in weeks.
Note to self: Metal plates plus prolonged exposure to the cold equals a bad idea.
But seriously, Ava’s impression is too good not to laugh, even in the depths of my damp despair. “You’re so good at that, Ava. You sound just like Miss Maybelline.”
“I love her voice,” Ava says. “She sounds like a cartoon.”
“She does,” I agree, breaking off with a hiss as another shrubby bit scrapes across my cheek, not far from where the doctor stitched me up after the car accident. I reach up, pushing the stick away and rubbing at the skin with the top of my forearm with the one dry part of my sweatshirt.
When I pull my sleeve away, there’s red on the fabric.
“Oh no,” I mutter with a curse, worried I might have torn my scar open. But my cheek doesn’t hurt that badly. Not much at all, really.
It’s my chin that feels scraped and raw.
Further investigation confirms it’s my chin that’s bleeding, not my cheek—which is good, I guess?—and that the damage isn’t bad. But I’m still going to need a wash and a bandage.
Heck, my entire body needs a wash, a thing I’m not sure how to accomplish since Dean isn’t due back for another hour, and I’m still on full-time kid duty.
I consider texting Cristina to ask how she would manage it. She doesn’t have kids of her own, but her sister does. But Cristina is gone until March. She ended up missing her husband so much that she got permission from her accounting firm to work remotely for a few months. Then, she and their puppy went to join him on his deployment in Germany. Meanwhile, she’s renting her house out as an Airbnb.
I don’t want to disturb her while she’s busy. I have no idea what time it is in Germany, but I’m pretty sure she’s working U.S. hours. And then there’s the fact that I haven’t told her that I’m nannying for her crazy hot neighbor.
I don’t know why I feel weird about it, but I do.
Maybe it’s because she could tell that I was thinking sizzly thoughts about Dean after he carried me back into her house that night last fall.
Maybe it’s because she’s made it clear she wants to set him up with her sister, a single mom with a little girl of her own, and a part of me doesn’t want to remind her of that plan. Because a part of me doesn’t want to think about Dean with another woman. It isn’t a logical part, obviously—we’re not a good fit for anything romantic, and we’ve already decided to forget that we ever had more than a friendly, boss-and-nanny relationship—but still…
Learning not to want more than friendship with Dean is a work in progress.
One that will likely get easier the longer he’s my boss and the more time I have to learn all his obnoxious habits. Like breezing through the kitchen looking stupidly hot for seven in the morning. And putting all the tea on a shelf too high for even me to reach—I’m tall, but not as tall as he is, and my arms aren’t nearly as long—and other things that are annoying.
Things I’m sure I’ll start to notice very soon.
Making a mental note to start a “Reasons Dean is Not Sexy” journal, where I can gather all the evidence in one place for easy reference, I roll the ball out of the bushes.
The girls cheer, but their celebration quickly transforms to gasps of horror as I emerge from the shrub looking like the final girl from a horror movie.
Ava’s eyes go saucer-wide. “What happened?”
Bella’s expression is equally shocked. “You’re dirty all over yourself, Clover.”
“All over,” Ava agrees, her jaw dropping as I push to my feet. “And there’s blood on your shirt! And on your face! Clover, you’re bleeding all over!”
“Oh no!” Bella shouts, her hands clapping on either side of her cheeks.
She looks so much like the kid from Home Alone that I can’t help but laugh again as I fetch my cane from beside the fence. My leg isn’t happy, but it’s nothing a hot bath and a couple of ibuprofen won’t cure. “It’s okay, guys, I promise. It’s just a scratch on my chin, and the rest of this is mud. Just wet dirt and dirt don’t hurt, right?”
They stare at me, looking vaguely confused and far from convinced.
“You’ve never heard that before? Dirt don’t hurt?” I ask. They shake their heads. “It just means that getting dirty isn’t a bad thing. It isn’t going to hurt you. It can even be fun sometimes.” I exhale a shaky laugh as the wind picks up, reminding me that I am soaking wet over seventy-percent of my body. “But it isn’t much fun when it’s this cold.”