Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
His smile widens but is tinged with regret. “A note? A trinket? A treasure?”
“Any of the above,” I whisper.
He takes a step closer. Close enough that I catch the scent of him. Soapy and clean, like he showered at home before he came here to work out with the guys. “I was in such a rush to get it done that I forgot to take something to replace the bracelet. I had to convince Birdie to take another bracelet later that day.”
I crack up. “The thought of your grandmother in a pink boa and heels trudging through a hiking trail in the Presidio doesn’t compute.”
“Trust me, it didn’t compute for her either. But she did it. She felt pretty bad about…everything.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” I say softly.
He scratches his jaw, glances at the door again. “She tells me you’re doing some work for her? Besides the photos you took?”
I smile. “I am. She hired me to take pics of her shop and the different drinks and food offerings every week—then she posts them on socials for the week.”
“That’s awesome,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe,” I say.
He’s quiet for a beat, then perhaps resigned to this new normal, he says, “I should go. I really shouldn’t be here like this.”
I nod, understanding completely. “I know.”
Before he leaves, he tilts his head and says, “Do you know sign language?”
“I do. Did you see me talking to my dad in his office?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t know what you said,” he admits.
“That’s the point,” I tease. But I can tell he’s asking seriously, in the way that means he wants to understand me.
“Have you always?”
“I learned it in school.” I don’t usually share the next part either. I hesitate, unsure if I want to put myself out there like this, unsure if I want to admit this to anyone besides my family. Still, maybe there’s some safety in telling him. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not a guy I’m dating. He can’t really hurt me. He can’t run away since we’ve already parted. “Just in case.”
His eyes flicker with something somber. “In case?” he prompts gently.
“Well,” I say, then I pause. “I don’t know what the future holds. I always want to be able to communicate with my family.”
He winces, his throat tightening. “I understand. I do.”
I’m not sure if he really does, but I appreciate how open he is about it, how comfortable and non-judgmental he seems. How caring he is when he talks to me. And how hard he tries.
“I should go,” I say, feeling the moment close in.
He leans in, like he’s going to kiss me, and honestly, I wouldn’t stop him.
I’m both sad and relieved when he doesn’t.
12
DOG YEARS
Miles
Don’t look at her.
Do not look at her.
Do not fucking look at her.
That’s what I tell myself all morning as I pull weeds and plant pea shoots for The Garden Society at an abandoned lot turned community garden on the edge of the Mission District.
I’m here with a bunch of guys from the team and a few from the Renegades football team too. Everly set this up, and I know it’s part of her efforts to give our goalie, Max, a makeover. He’s grumpy as hell and needs an image boost, so she’s been tasked with that, and it looks like she hired Leighton to snap promo pics for this community outreach event.
I really should just focus on these clowns I play hockey with and not on the beautiful brunette. “Hey, Callahan, you thinking of planting some lucky coins here?” I tease, giving Asher a hard time. The winger is the walking definition of superstition.
“Maybe you should. Might help your prospects,” Max tosses back.
Ouch. He can’t know it hits below the belt. “Nothing wrong with luck,” I say. The older I get, the more I learn to happily take the days when fortune is on my side.
As Wesley digs a small hole for a plant, he tosses a wry look my way. “True, true. And since you’re older, Falcon, we should listen when you speak from the fountain of old-dude wisdom.”
I thump him on the side of the head. “Did that hurt?”
“That hurt,” he whines.
“Good, it was supposed to.”
“Old dudes know how to hit,” Max deadpans.
I narrow my eyes at our goalie. “I’m only a few years older than you, asshole.”
Max shrugs. “But you know how it is for hockey players. Years are like dog years. So you’re…” He pauses, thinking.
“Twenty-one years older than you,” Asher supplies to Max, who’s thirty.
I point at Asher, who’s supposed to be the nice guy. “And you’re thirty-two, asshole. You’re closer in age to me.”
“Still seven years younger in dog years,” he says.
“That’s it. We’ll have a bench-press contest tomorrow,” I say, egging them on.
“So you can get enough sleep first, right?” Wesley asks, smirking.