Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Diego. My protector.
It hits me. Is that what Connie meant, calling him a gargoyle? Besides being statues perched above the doors to old buildings, I forgot their actual purpose: To watch over. To protect. Guardians of the home. I guess Diego is, in so many ways, the guardian of mine.
I’m still thinking of that notion when the sun rises over my face, bringing in the morning. I can’t say how soundly I slept, only that I’m surprised our naked bodies didn’t wake us back up for the sexy times Diego wanted so badly.
I smell eggs and toast again, but nothing’s burning. The scent draws me out of bed, into a pair of boxers, and down the hall to the kitchen. Diego is at the counter cooking in his underwear.
I smile, overcome with a sort of warm, buttery emotion I can’t name. I could sure get used to this.
While we eat plates of eggs and toast—the eggs are still way overdone, but I’m starting to appreciate the taste of them being scrambled with zero percent runniness—I remember something Lance texted me the other day. “Tuesday evenings,” I tell Diego, “some people hang out at Tumbleweeds to shoot pool, drink, and just blow off some midweek steam. It’s located right between our workplaces, actually. Wanna meet up there after work?”
I’m prepared for Diego to do his usual. Shrug, turn me down, and say something about waiting for my sexy ass to return to his house afterwards where he’ll be waiting sprawled out on his bed, naked and horny.
Instead, he surprises me with: “Sure, I’ll be there.”
I lift my eyebrows.
He chuckles. “Don’t look so surprised.” He chomps off a bite of toast and swallows. “I can be social.”
“You just said the word like it’s a disease.”
He stuffs the rest of the toast into his mouth. “It is.”
I have to laugh.
Diego heads back to his house to change for work. I get ready myself, sprucing up my hair and brushing my teeth. I take us in my car, insisting to spare him the walk under a particularly harsh morning sun. After dropping him off at Whitaker Auto, I head the rest of the way to Wishing Blooms, feeling so light on my feet that I’m nearly skipping up to the door to let myself in.
I go behind the counter and flip on the computer to check my emails, already running through lists in my head of what I need to do, deliveries to prepare for the weekend, seeds and soil to order, tasks I can set aside for Cash.
That’s when I spot the email at the top of my inbox:
Mr. Callahan,
Bellamy Events has made the decision to discontinue our standing floral arrangement with Wishing Blooms effective immediately. Going forward, we will be diversifying our vendors and addressing floral needs on an event-by-event basis. Existing obligations will of course be honored under the terms of our current agreement.
We appreciate the years of excellent service you have provided and wish you and your business continued success.
Best regards,
Aubrey Carson, Secretary
Office of Grant Bellamy
Bellamy Events
—28—
Diego
“Wait, they’re still doing Tumbleweeds Tuesdays??”
I’m in the break room about to clock out after a tiring day. My phone’s hanging in my grip as I stare at the calendar on the wall, feeling numb. Joel is going off after hearing where I’m headed. I’m not even here, can’t even listen to him or respond, fucking dead to the world.
“Think I’ll stop by with you,” he goes on, practically talking to himself. “Mindy won’t mind. And I’m in no hurry to get home. It’s Disney night. Again. Fuckin’ every Tuesday, man. Can only watch Frozen so many times before I’m ‘bout to let it go.”
“Fine,” I mumble, finally pocketing my phone, unable to bear one more thought today, then clock out at the computer.
“You okay?” He tucks his lunchbox under an arm. “You get a weird text or somethin’? You seem pissed. Like, more than usual.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, heading off. He clocks out fast and hurries behind me to keep up.
He talks my ear off the whole way there, second-guessing if he should just go home, if he might be tempted to drink too much at the bar, if he should shoot his wife a text first. I couldn’t care less. All I want to do is see Wyatt’s face and have this day turn around.
Except I’m not sure Wyatt’s face alone can do that.
Awful lot of pressure to put on him.
And the last thing that guy needs is more pressure.
I don’t want to be a problem in his life. I want to be something he counts on, not something he deals with. In my short month in this town, I’ve seen him put up with too much already. And I’ll be damned to be just one more thing.
Tumbleweeds, a popular bar on Main Street that doubles as a steak-and-potatoes restaurant apparently, is already too crowded for my taste when Joel and I approach the front.