Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
I click “Book Now” and hover my finger over the confirmation button as my laptop buzzes with a low battery. Damn. I really need to start charging my electronic devices more frequently. I hurry up and finish the transaction before my laptop rolls over and dies.
Out in the hall, the noises of the shop amplify as air tools buzz, classic rock blares, and someone shouts “Bullshit!” with such force that the glass trembles.
I think I hear Seth’s voice mixing with all the noises. My pulse still does weird things every time I think of my rescuer. It’s hard enough to be unruffled when your entire life is going up in flames without being distracted by whatever the hell is happening between us.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the office window. My hair is tragic, my glasses are askew, and my shirt is slightly wrinkled with "BAD DECISIONS CLUB" printed in an ironic varsity font.
I adjust my bra through the fabric, then realize the office is ringed with security cameras and is probably visible from everywhere. I stop, because the only thing worse than making an ass of myself is knowing someone is watching me do it.
After throwing my laptop into my bag, I yank it closed and head for the stairs. The main lobby is a long glass rectangle overlooking the bays. Seth’s at the counter, head bent over a clipboard, one hand raking through his hair in clear distress. He looks up when I approach, and the glower instantly melts from his face.
“Everything okay, Sassy Pants?” He gives me a smile that instantly melts my insides and causes my girly parts to wake up and tingle. Oh, heck no. I don’t have time to deal with these unwanted feelings.
"Yep. I just needed a breather," I reply, plastering an overly bright smile across my face. The air seems to shimmer with tension as I add, "I'm gonna check into the Silver Spoon Inn while I wait for you guys to whip Sparkie into shape." My voice carries a cool, collected tone, but inside, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.
When he looks at me, I feel an overwhelming intensity that nearly melts me into a puddle under his penetrating gaze. "Want a lift?"
On what? Flashes through my mind, and I give my head a little shake, wondering where all these crazy thoughts are coming from.
“It’s not too far.” Hopefully, a little exercise will clear my mind and help me figure out how I’m going to handle this situation. “I’ll just walk.” Over the last few weeks, I’ve had a black cloud hovering right over my head that I just can’t shake. Now, I’ve got the black cloud mixed with an unfortunate desire for Seth.
"I'm here if you need anything." His voice drops to a low, intimate whisper as he leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against my ear. "Just ask." My lips part, ready to utter something foolish and impulsive, like "please handcuff me to your bed." Fortunately, I manage to catch the reckless words just in time, swallowing them back before they escape.
"Thank you," I manage to whisper, my voice barely steady.
"Anything for you, Frankie." The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine, twisting my insides in a confusing, treacherous dance. I fight to keep my face neutral, hiding the tumult within. “I need your cellphone number so I can reach you about your car.” He hands me a form to fill out my contact info.
With quick, deliberate strokes, I fill out only the essential details, my hand moving with a practiced ease. "Here you go," I murmur softly, handing it back to him while summoning every ounce of dignity I can muster. My footsteps echo softly as I head toward the glass doors, the cool, smooth surface reflecting the determined set of my shoulders. My mother would be so proud of my efforts.
Outside, the sun is already blistering. I haul my overnight bag higher on my shoulder and set off down the sidewalk, past the gleaming luxury cars and battered pickup trucks.
Downtown Silver Spoon Falls looks like someone built a movie set for “Quaint, Rich Small Town” and then let it bake in the Texas sun for a century. The Silver Spoon Inn is at the center of it—whitewashed brick, purple hydrangeas exploding from the beds, and a wrought-iron sign that looks like it was hand-forged by elves. I step inside, the AC nearly knocking me over, and blink in an attempt to get my eyes to adjust.
The lobby is aggressively homey. There’s a chandelier made of old wine bottles, two armchairs upholstered in something that probably cost more than Sparkie did, and a little plate of lemon cookies on the check-in desk. The woman behind the counter has hair the color of caution tape and a huge smile that stretches across her face.