Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“Guess I haven’t entirely lost my date planning touch,” she says, then snags a sample for herself, thanking the guy, then moaning approvingly after she crunches into it.
“We’re both going to need those too,” I say.
The man smiles, like he’s pleased his cheese brought us together or something. “Like I always say, there’s nothing cheesy about a date with Monterey Jack.”
Remy gives a kind laugh. “Thanks again for the sample.”
“You’re welcome. Sometimes, you just gotta cheese the day.”
“Words to live by,” she says, and waves goodbye. Yep, that’s her style—chatting with everyone. It’s sweet, though definitely not my style.
We head down the cracker aisle, then stop by a woman offering olive samples, then I discover—yes, this is heaven—someone offering mini pizzas. I inhale two, but I rein it in. Though we do go down the frozen aisle and snag some mini pizzas. As we walk, I have half a mind to set my hand on the small of her back.
Which brings up a critical question. “What does your spreadsheet say about physical affection?”
She turns around in front of the cold case, her brow furrowed, gaze thoughtful. “I guess we’ll have to be reasonably affectionate.”
“Define reasonably affectionate,” I say.
Please say it involves spreading you out on the bed and making you scream harder than you ever have before.
Her cheeks pinken again.
From the way she stared at my chest to her breath hitching, I’m wondering if Remy is on the same cell in her spreadsheet that I’m on.
“Hand holding,” she begins, like she’s checking off items on a list.
I don’t waste time. I reach for her hand and slowly, teasingly slide my fingers through hers. Her hand is soft and warm, and when I run the pad of my thumb across her palm, a tremble seems to move through her. Her eyes flare. Such a good fucking look.
I clasp our hands tighter. “How about an arm around your waist?”
She nods. Quickly. “That sounds like a good idea too.”
I let go of her hand and set down the bag, then move closer to coast an arm across her lower back. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. It’s dangerous how good this feels. To breathe her in. To inhale that clean, floral scent of her hair. To touch her.
I need more.
“And this?” I take the lead as I shift closer, tuck a strand of hair over her ear, the move making her dangling earrings sway. They’re little stars, and I touch the point of one, then barely brush my finger against her earlobe. I’m burning up already even in this chilly aisle. “Is that reasonably affectionate?” I rasp out.
She slides her teeth along her lower lip, then whispers, “Very, very reasonable.”
Heat roars through me, a low, persistent buzz. I’m dying to ask about kissing. But she’s so fantastically flustered right now that I’m thinking it’s best to leave her wanting more.
“Let’s figure the rest out later. I should get you home.”
We grab the pizza boxes and head to the checkout, where I don’t even give her a chance to take out her phone.
“Lake, I was going to pay,” she says as I swipe my phone across the tap screen.
“No, you weren’t,” I say, emphatic.
“Lake, seriously. I don’t want you to have to pay for anything,” she says on the way through the lot. “You’re doing me a favor.”
I stop at my car, where I pop the trunk. “There’s nothing about this that’s a favor,” I say in no uncertain terms.
I drive her back to her home in the Marina, not far from the bridge, giving me enough time to easily get home to Dad before the library closes. When I cut the engine, I say, “Hold on.”
“Right. I need to grab my groceries.”
“Yes, but that’s not why I said hold on.” I reach into the back seat and grab a gift bag from Whiskers and Kisses in Cozy Valley. For a hot second, nerves dart down my spine. It’s kind of a romantic gift, and who the hell knows how it’ll go over? I’m no dating expert. But I’d bet the puck from my first ever pro goal that her douchey ex sucked at gifts. “I got you a hummingbird feeder.”
I offer it to her, but she makes no move to take it at first. Just kind of looks at me curiously. “Lake Axelrod,” she says, as if she’s speaking my name for the first time.
“Yeah?”
“I wasn’t expecting a gift. I’m not used to them.”
Called it. “Get used to them now. You’re dating me.” I check the time. I’ve got a few minutes to spare, and giving a gift isn’t always enough. “I’ll hang it up.”
“I can do that.”
“But it’s what a good fake boyfriend would do.” I’m not losing this battle with her—I intend to show her what she deserves.
She gestures to the porch. “I’ll be sure to add it to my spreadsheet for tracking our dating history—hung up a hummingbird feeder after our first date.”