Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Hey! Next Door Neighbor Guy!” Her eyes dance as she adds, “What are you doing here?”
“Saving bassists in distress, I guess,” I say, cringing at how fucking cheesy I sound. Have I ever flirted before? Ever? Willing myself to play it slightly more cool, I add. “I heard you playing. You’ve got skills, Flamingo Pajamas.”
Her smile widens. “Thanks. And thanks for the save. Again.”
“Anytime,” I murmur, my voice huskier than it should be.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to release her and take a step back.
“You okay, Clover?” the guy with the dreads asks, shooting me a sideways glance.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Zee,” she says, fetching a cane leaning against the couch cushions before moving past me. “Tell your brother thanks for letting me borrow his bass. This was fun.”
“No worries,” he says. “Catch you with the band next week? You filling in on Saturday?”
“Maybe. Depends on my new job. I’m not clear on my hours yet, but I’ll let you know.” She nods for me to follow her. “Come on.”
I blink, but don’t hesitate to trail her down the steps. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know,” she says, “but we can’t stay here. Five dollars says Charlotte is shutting the party down as we speak.”
Before I can reply, Charlotte sticks her head out the front door, calling, “Sorry, guys, I’m gonna have to call it an early night. I have to wrap things up here and get to the hospital.”
Clover grins at me over her shoulder as she starts across the grass. “Told ya. Now you owe me five bucks.”
I arch a brow, even more charmed than I was the first time we met. “I don’t remember taking that bet.”
She shrugs. “Not sure it matters. What matters is, where can you buy me a drink for five dollars that isn’t too far from here? I promised Beatrice I wouldn’t join the crowd at the hospital, but there’s no way I’m sleeping until I know that giant baby is out of her and everything’s okay.” At the edge of the sidewalk, she adds, “She’s my roommate. But more like a sister, you know? So…where to?”
She looks up at me expectantly.
Thankfully, my weary brain finally wakes the fuck up and grabs the flirting baton she’s extended my way.
“McLeary’s Pub,” I say. “Obviously. Open until two, ice cold drafts, the best stale buttered popcorn in the city, and right around the corner.”
Clover makes a happy sound that I also like far more than I should. “Yum, love me some stale popcorn. Let’s do it.”
I nod. “My truck’s at the end of the block.”
“That’s good,” she says, smiling as she falls in beside me. “I still haven’t saved up enough for another car and rode here with Bea’s mom.”
“Then, you’ll have to let me drive you home, too. That way you won’t have to worry about finding a cab.”
“Sounds good,” she says. “I’m Clover, by the way. In case you forgot, Dean.”
“I didn’t, Clover,” I say, holding her gaze a beat too long. “Not for a second.”
And that’s how it starts, a night I’ll look back on again and again in the weeks to come and wonder what the fuck I was thinking.
All the clues were there, all the signs.
I really should have known better.
But even if I had…
Well, I’m not sure it would have made a difference.
Some things—like beautiful women with trouble in their eyes—are impossible to resist. Even when you know they’re completely off-limits.
Two
CLOVER CUMMINGS
I should go home.
Now.
Home is the smart choice.
These days, home is always the smart choice.
At home, if my pain spikes or my leg gives out or my newly volatile emotions leak down my face, I have resources. Home is where medicine and my comfy bed and my emotional-support ice cream live. At home, alone in my room, I can cuddle my stuffed squirrel and feel sorry for myself without anyone asking me “what’s wrong?” or telling me it’s okay to “let my feelings out,” when they really don’t want me to let my feelings out.
My feelings about the accident are upsetting, off-putting, and messy as fuck.
No one likes the girl who’s messy as fuck.
So, I conceal how messy I am when I can, and hide at home when I can’t.
Presently, around seventy-five percent of my free time is spent puttering around in my room or soaking in the bathtub until my fingers prune like alien worms.
And that should tell you everything you need to know about the pathetic state of my life.
Ever since that truck slammed into the driver’s side of my car last October, “hide at home and attempt to recover from how hard it is to exist” has become my entire personality. I have a titanium rod in my leg, a plate in my arm, a two-inch scar on my cheek that’s “healing beautifully,” but is still a two-inch scar I didn’t have before, and a running list of things I can no longer do.