Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Drake is disciplined when it comes to rest. He says it’s a vital part of being an athlete, even more important than the work at times. Without downtime and sleep, the go hours, as he calls them, aren’t as successful. So it’s ingrained in him at this point to slow down in the evenings and be asleep by the time I’m usually just hitting the gas.
It’s been an interesting change to be in his world of routine. He never expects me to follow his schedule, but I’ve found a rhythm to it that I enjoy. Or maybe it’s just being with him that I love.
“Mario called me this evening before you got here,” he says softly. “He said that he expects them to decide who’s taking the true crime slot next week.”
I force a swallow, remembering that I promised Francine that I wouldn’t share with him what she told me—just in case she’s wrong. “I heard something like that, too.”
“We haven’t talked about that,” he says quietly.
I shrug, knowing we need to talk about this before it happens, but wishing it wasn’t right now. I haven’t sorted my feelings about it. We don’t even know for sure what the decision will be. Hopefully, we get a heads-up before it happens so it’s not awkward.
It’s not every day that you go head-to-head with your boyfriend for the biggest promotion at your company—and everyone you know, plus thousands of others, are watching.
“No, we haven’t,” I say. “But I think if we open that door, there are other things that we might have to discuss, too.” Like what will happen between us when this is over.
He hums sleepily. “Yeah. We have time,” he says, the words drifting off as he falls asleep.
I try to sleep, too, but can’t. My mind has been activated, and when it moves this quickly, there’s no stopping it. Not even with Drake.
I’ve been trying to live in the moment and not think too much about what happens when our experiment is complete. This last month has been the greatest few weeks of my life—and that’s a problem. It’s so great with Drake. It exceeds any dream I ever could’ve imagined. He’s all the things from handsome to intelligent to protective in a way that still lets me breathe.
He lets me be me.
But the problem with that is … I’m me.
I love who I am, and I like myself as a person, which I think matters a whole hell of a lot in the grand scheme of things. But I know from personal experience with people who were required to love me, who were genetically designed to have affection toward me, that I’m not lovable long-term. I’m too quirky. Too honest. I don’t always value the same things as everyone else, and that’s often a dealbreaker.
So even though Drake seems amused by my dumpster diving and ketchup-stained shirts, I must keep my expectations realistic. I’m fun, but I’m probably not forever.
“It’s a part of the fun of this whole thing. I have a window to say all the things I want to say before I have to go back to being your co-worker.”
His words from our date at Hess sear into my brain.
“You and I would never be together under normal circumstances. I want to fall in love and have a family.”
My chest constricts so tightly that I can barely breathe. It caught me off guard when he said it before, but thinking about it now, it hits differently. Those are his words, his confession—our truth, and nothing has changed.
He’s control, and I’m chaos. He’s disciplined, and I’m a disaster. He wants devotion, and I’m a disappointment, and there’s no way I can be anything different.
It’s only natural that Drake will want a wife who can be as warm and nurturing as Barb. I killed Matilda. He’s a slightly smaller version of Big Ed, and it makes sense that he wants a big family, a dog, and tea ready in the kitchen. I can’t even get to my kitchen table, thanks to the aluminum-can butterflies.
There was a bird bath in the Bennett’s front yard. There’s a urinal in mine, for fuck’s sake.
Drake groans, rolling over and onto his back. His forehead wrinkles as if he’s deep in thought or pain.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask, propping up on one elbow.
A smile ghosts his lips, and the wrinkling of his brow eases before my eyes. “Yeah. I love you.”
He mumbles something incoherent, still deep asleep, and I stare at him in disbelief.
Tears fill my eyes, clouding my vision. His hand brushes against mine, and he instinctively pulls me against him and holds me tightly. I don’t have the heart, nor the want, to extract myself from his arms.
My chest tightens, filling with a warmth so hot that it almost burns my ribs. A lump the size of Ohio seals my throat as I memorize the heat of his body, the sound of his breath, the smell of his skin. The feel of this moment.