Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
It's a fair question, and I give her the honest answer, leaning forward so my forearms press against the cool tablecloth. "I like knowing why things happen. Figuring out the patterns, putting the pieces together. My brothers, they want to be first on the scene, all adrenaline and heroics. Me?" I tap my temple with one finger. "I want to know what set it all off in the first place."
She nods, thoughtful, and a strand of hair escapes her ponytail and falls across her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear with a quick, practiced motion. "I can see that."
We settle back in our chairs, both a little buzzed from the wine and the laughter. There's a lull in the conversation, but it doesn't feel awkward anymore. It’s just the comfortable silence of two people who don't need to fill every second with words. I take a long pull from my beer, cold and bitter against my tongue, then look at her with my heart hammering against my ribs.
“You know,” I say, “tonight has turned out even better than I could’ve hoped for.”
She looks down, smoothing her napkin one last time, then glances up at me. “I know.” She bites her lip, looking suddenly shy, and I swear to God my heart can’t handle any more.
The waitress swings by to clear our plates and says the mains will be out soon. I watch Isla relax into her seat, see the last of the tension leave her shoulders. She’s fucking perfect. We’re fucking perfect.
I get the feeling she’s thinking the same thing.
The main courses hit the table with a sizzle and a cloud of herby steam. My plate is stacked with a bone-in pork chop and a mound of creamy polenta, while Isla’s is a plate of linguine tossed with shrimp and cherry tomatoes. She sits back, looking almost pleased. She even does a little eye roll at the presentation, but she’s smiling when she does it.
For a while, we eat in comfortable silence. I watch her twirl the pasta with the kind of precision that must come from years of practice. Her quiet moans are enough to turn my cock to stone. I fidget in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, while she takes careful bites. Every few minutes, she sneaks a glance at me like she’s still not sure if this is actually happening.
After a few bites, she looks at me for a long second, like she’s weighing what she’s about to say. “You should know, I grew up in foster care. Bounced around a lot,” she says, and even though her face is like stone, her fingers start tracing patterns on her napkin. “Got placed with a family in Houston when I was twelve and ended up staying with them until I graduated high school. They were nice. Not perfect, but better than the others.”
I don’t say anything. I just let her talk, because I can tell she’s not used to having anyone just listen. I see her shoulders relax, just a fraction.
“After high school, I went to college for criminal justice on a merit scholarship. I wanted to be a detective, but I wasn’t cut out for big-city politics. Too much bullshit.” She twirls a strand of pasta but doesn’t eat it. “So, I applied to Riverbend Ridge and the rest is… history.”
She says it like it’s nothing, but I know it’s a hell of a lot. I let the silence hang for a few seconds, then say, “That’s pretty damn impressive.”
She shrugs. “Is it? I mean, I work hard, but sometimes it feels like I’m just… I don’t know. Treading water. Trying to keep everyone happy.”
I lean in, resting my forearms on the table. “Do you want to keep everyone happy?”
The question seems to catch her off guard. She considers it, then shakes her head. “No. Not really.”
I smile. “Good. Makes it easier to do the right thing when you’re not trying to please all the assholes in the room.”
She laughs, and it’s a full, rich sound that makes her eyes light up. “That’s… not bad advice.”
“Years of experience,” I say, raising my beer in a mock toast. “Dealing with my asshole brother as my boss.”
She taps her glass against mine, and for a second, her hand lingers on her stemware. She looks up at me, and I see something open up in her—something raw and real and unguarded.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Anything.”
She hesitates, then goes for it. “Why do you want to date me?” Her voice is steady, but her fingers are white-knuckled around the base of her glass. I don’t want to “date” her, I want to fucking tie her little ass to me for life and knock her up.
Don’t move too fast and fuck this up, flashes through my mind as I tone down my response. “Because I really like you. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met. You don’t take shit from anyone, and you make me want to be better.”