Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I’m registering more and more that I nearly lost this. That I died. That each of these tiny, insignificant moments is a gift.
After we’re done, groceries unloaded, Honey walked, house clean, neither of us feels like sitting around. Restless, we hop back in the car and drive a short way inland for a night out together.
I’m pretty sure that my memory of scents is coming back, because the second we step foot in Bluefoot Bar and Lounge, I’m positive I’ve been here before.
“Yeah,” Emery confirms when I ask. “You and Crash used to come here a lot in your early twenties. You shared a tiny apartment nearby, with four other guys.”
I look around. It’s not a big place, and on this random afternoon, it’s perhaps predictably not very crowded, but I can imagine on a weekend or game night, it would be packed. The well-stocked bar lines one long wall, while the wall opposite has two wide doors that open to a patio facing Thirtieth Street. In between are two blue-topped pool tables. A door at the end of the bar leads to another room with high-top tables, booths, and a DJ stand in the corner.
Emery makes her way to the bar and looks over her shoulder at me after ordering herself a gin and tonic. “I’m not gonna order for you. Maybe this new Luca drinks differently.”
“What did I drink before?”
“Not telling.”
Laughing, I consider a cocktail, too, but find my attention moving to the beer menu overhead. My mouth waters at the idea of a pint of lager on this hot day. “I’ll have… the Eppig, I think?” I tell the bartender, and beside me, Emery claps. “Did I do well?” I ask her.
She nods. “You love Eppig. It’s a local brewery.”
“Cool.”
Emery tilts her head to the side. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Not tired?”
A little, but nothing I can’t handle. “I swear I’m good.”
“And the leg?”
It feels so nice to be out, I’d actually forgotten about it for a few minutes. “It’s good, too.”
“Good,” she says cheekily. “How do you feel about getting spanked by your wife…” My pulse trips, and she grins at me. “… in pool?”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever played pool,” I tell her, “and I would happily be spanked by you.” Thanking the bartender when she deposits the pint glass on the bar top in front of me, I add, “But something tells me it’s going to be a close match.”
Emery’s eyes shine as she takes a sip of her drink through the thin straw and shrugs.
* * *
Barely one game in and I already know my wife is a shark.
“When on earth did you have time to learn how to play this when you were living in the lab like a hermit?”
She laughs, sinking the solid two ball with a satisfying thunk. “You taught me.”
I believe her. She’s good, but I’m better.
I watch her line up a shot with the eight ball for the win, but can tell it’s going to barely ricochet off the corner pocket.
“Wow, your teacher sucked,” I tease, and she rounds the table toward me, her hips swaying under the intensity of my attention, and comes to a stop only inches away. For a beat, I think she’s going to stretch up on her toes and let me kiss her, but she only reaches around me for her drink, taking a long, deep gulp while she holds my gaze.
“Winner buys the next round,” she says.
“If memory serves, you’re my sugar mama. I think you’re buying all the rounds.” She laughs at this, and I counter, “I think it’s more like ‘loser has to tell a secret.’ ”
“Do you have any secrets?” she asks, laughing.
“Hey,” I say, mock offended, “I’ve had several days to create new ones.”
Emery finishes her drink, pulling air through her straw before letting out a satisfied ahhh. “Excellent. I can’t wait to hear them when you lose.”
I grin down at her, brushing her shoulder with my arm as I pass her to survey the table. “You’re cockier than I expected you to be, Dr. Martín.”
“You have to know by now that I am the cockiest asshole you’ve ever met.”
“And the cutest.”
She gives a little curtsy, and I work to tear my gaze away from her gin-warmed cheeks. She’s so fucking beautiful.
On the table, I have a shot with my final stripe, but barely. As I bend to aim, Emery steps in behind me, crowding my space, and leans over to exhale softly into the back of my neck.
“Do you mind?” I ask, laughing.
“Just trying to help.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “Help me how, Em? By pressing your boobs into my back?”
She lifts her chin. “You’re aiming a little high.”
“Trust, darlin’, I know right where to strike.” I give her a big smile. “I think most guys probably aim too low.”