Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139088 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Although this was fascinating, I was internally at odds with how well he knew this information.
“It’s a streaming TV show,” I reminded him.
“It’s ridiculous,” he said to me.
“But it’s just a TV show.”
He had the remote, because of course he did, because he also had a dick (and a very nice one at that).
Then again, the verbal tussle we had about who would be in command of the remote was only half-hearted on my part.
This was a weird thing about me.
If I was watching TV with other people, I had remote anxiety. I didn’t understand it. But it freaked me if I was the one who had to type into the search screen or fast-forward or rewind to the right spot.
Knox paused the show, and explained, “They’ve founded this in reality. It’s a show about the UK maybe going to war with South Korea, which is the start of the ridiculousness, since they’re allies. If you make it real, it’s gotta seem real. You make it all fantasy, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
“Like Han and Luke being good shots, and nearly every stormtrooper sucking with their blasters,” I said.
He nodded his head that was lying on a toss pillow. “Like that. And John Wick kicking ass in what is our world, but everything about his world is dark urban fantasy. So him besting everyone he’s up against doesn’t seem stupid.”
“Do you want to stop watching this?” I offered.
“Not if you’re into it,” he said.
Aw, he was so sweet.
“Is this something I need to make note of for future, that spy or commando or whatever type action shows need to pass the Knox Chambers test of believability or you’ll grumble through the whole thing?”
He appeared insulted. “I’m not grumbling.”
“Dude, we’re watching a hot guy, who’s not as hot as you, by the way…”
He smirked.
Mm.
I was falling in love with that smirk.
“…saving two awesome nations from going to war and you’re counting rounds,” I concluded.
“It’s reflex,” he muttered.
I rolled my eyes.
When I rolled them back, he was smiling at me.
“Since we’re paused, do you want to take this opportunity to make a huge-ass bowl of popcorn?” I asked.
“Real melted butter?”
Now I appeared insulted. “Eating dry popcorn? Uh…no.”
“You’re on butter. I’ll get out the popcorn popper,” he said, moving us, so Jacques, who was curled at our feet, jumped off the couch then got excited when we headed toward the kitchen (Knox was a treat guy, I said no human food often, and he ignored me every time I said it—I couldn’t be certain, but I was thinking Jacques was contemplating defecting).
And just to say, I could fall in love with a man who had a popcorn popper.
And who spoiled dogs.
We made popcorn.
I confided in him about my remote anxiety while we did, and he nearly injured himself laughing.
I huffed.
He kissed the huff out of me.
We returned to the couch, but this time, tangled up sitting so we could share the massive bowl.
Knox often sent kernels flying, and Jacques went after them.
I often told him to stop doing that.
He consistently ignored me.
He also grumbled through the next two episodes.
Honestly?
I didn’t care.
Even if it was scary, it was also hot he knew this shit.
And as ever and always with my open mind, I was learning all sorts of things, and letting them soak in.
I was walking from my car to The Porch for dinner with Brady, doing this reading a text that Gemma sent forewarning me not to come up with any last-minute excuses to get out of karaoke (I was considering a flash bout of tonsilitis, but apparently that sterling idea was going to die an early death).
I was almost to the door when I looked up and saw a car drive by in the parking lot.
It was mostly past me, so I didn’t see the driver well.
But I could swear it was Cheyenne.
Shit and hellfire.
I stopped and pivoted, watching the car traverse the lot to see if I could clock her on the back curve and…
Yup.
It was fucking Cheyenne.
“Shit and hellfire.” I said it out loud that time.
After I processed how annoying (and perhaps scary) that was, I sighed, deciding, if she wasn’t there coincidentally (and I knew she wasn’t, my guess, she’d followed me from Knox’s, which meant she did that from there to my house to here, quite the commitment), to think on what I was going to do about that after dinner with Brady.
What I knew I wasn’t going to do was tell Knox.
But I was now glad we were going to have our talk.
We needed to get a few things straight.
I sent off a text to Gemma to let her know I wasn’t going to blow off karaoke (who knew you could hope for a flash case of tonsilitis?) and went into the restaurant.
The Porch had a rectangular bar in the middle, some tables and chairs, booths around the walls, and approximately seven thousand, six hundred and nineteen TVs all over the place.