Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Her gaze is serious as she nods in understanding. “I get it.”
“But I heard you yesterday. You want to run your business and go about your life as best you can,” I add, speaking with total sincerity. She asked me to give her space, but we were both still worked up during that conversation. I want her to know I listened to her then, and I’m definitely listening to her now. And I want to prove myself to her. “Let me show you today that you can still do that with me around.”
She lifts a doubtful brow. “Yeah?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“Okay then.” She extends a hand across the table to shake. I take it, and when I let go, she reaches a hand behind her neck and rubs. “My neck is both stiffer and looser at the same time. How is that possible after yoga?”
“Yoga makes us move our bodies in different ways than we’re used to,” I say, then try to focus on the positive. “You seemed like you enjoyed the end of the class though?”
“Yes. Can I just do the slowing down part?” she asks with a spark in her voice, and there’s that flirty, fun side from the night I met her. “I’d like to go to a class where someone tells me to lie down on a mat, and close my eyes, and then bam, I’m asleep.”
That sounds awful to me, but I do like that she’s talking to me rather than running from me. “So basically, nap time?”
“Yes. I would like a nap class.”
“Do they have those, too, at the community center? Pole dancing and nap classes?”
“A girl can dream,” she says.
I shudder.
She points at me like she’s caught me on a technicality. “Ah, so you don’t like pole dancing.”
“Actually, you have me there. I probably suck at pole dancing. Never done it before, but I’m pretty sure I cannot rock a pole,” I say.
She thrusts her arms in the air. “And he is human after all.” After she takes a victorious sip of her coffee, her brow furrows, like she’s clearly rewinding something in her head. “Wait. You shuddered when I mentioned naps and pole dancing, but you never did pole dancing. Banks,” she says, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “do you hate naps?”
“With a deep and ferocious passion.”
She looks at me like I’m nuts. “Who are you? A robot? Wait. I might believe that.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Of course you would,” she says, rolling her eyes, but more playfully this time. Then, she holds up a wait a second finger. “Did you not even do the sleepy pose?”
“Shavasana,” I supply.
“I saw you didn’t close your eyes.”
“You were checking me out,” I say, deflecting.
“Is there room in the shop for you and your ego?”
I look around the café. “We both seem to fit comfortably. Now tell me more about how you were keeping an eye on me during sleepy pose?”
“Banks,” she chides, and it’s clear she’s trying to understand me rather than trip me up. “You really don’t like napping?”
Ah, hell. She opened up to me. The least I can do is give her some of the same. I relent. “I…don’t like relaxing.”
She flinches, like that does not compute. “That’s like not liking sunshine. Or music. Or a night out with friends.”
“I like all of the above.”
“But not relaxing?”
No, because what if that leads to napping at other times? Like on the job? No way. I won’t leave my charges unprotected while I’m on shift, so I won’t risk napping. Shavasana is something I don’t do. “I don’t sleep on planes. Or buses. Or park benches. Or yoga studios. I like…control,” I admit, then pick up a paper menu on the table listing the coffee drinks.
“But in the Marines—you were in the Marines, right?”
“Yes.” I furrow my brow, folding it into a triangle. “How did you know? Did Lila tell you?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Just something Haven said, but even if she hadn’t, I’d have guessed. Just like you guessed I’d try to ditch you on two wheels.”
Damn. She’s good. “Impressive.”
“So when you were in the Marines, you probably had to sleep anywhere?”
After I fold the bottom right of the paper to the top, I stop and lift a finger. “I can sleep anywhere. Now that I don’t have to—I choose not to.”
“Huh.”
I brace myself for a barb as I flip the paper over. That’s what we do, after all, this woman and me. We fire sarcasm-dipped arrows at each other. But Ripley is surprisingly quiet, thoughtful even, as she nods. “I can see that—for someone who likes control, that pose would be hard.”
“Yes. Exactly,” I say.
“Is that why you do origami too? Control?”
I stop before I finish the animal I’m making. “This isn’t for control,” I say, but I’m not about to tell her folding paper into animals is a habit I picked up long ago. Way back when my father’s secrets were unraveling, when the life we lived growing up imploded, when I needed something to keep me busy so I didn’t punch the asshole every time I saw him. It calmed me down, and then it became a daily practice.