Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
I can only imagine how much more therapy I’d need. That thought brings me down to earth, and so does a knock on the door. Fresh Face is here, and I’m both irritated they’ve ruined the moment and grateful I’m saved by the bell.
17
THE DISTRACTION PLAY
LAKE
If I’d thought the view from an owl box was great, it has nothing on the view right now. I’m leaning against the wall in the narrow hallway that looks into Remy’s tiny bathroom. She’s standing in front of the mirror, putting stuff on her face. Words like foundation, concealer, matte, and primer float in the air like they mean anything to me. A videographer shoots from the doorway, while another woman stands nearby—a producer type, who’d earlier set up a ring light and made sure Remy was mic’d.
I watch it all go down from a few feet away. Never knew that this was missing from my life—watching someone put on makeup.
Heather wasn’t a big makeup person. Sure, she did hers before we went out on dates, but I never deliberately watched her put it on. No real reason, other than maybe it felt like something private.
But today I’m invited, and I’m damn glad I RSVP’d.
Because Remy’s so absorbed in dusting on the powder that she bites her lip. She stares in the mirror, checking out her work with such intense focus, all for a date with me.
It’s intimate, and I’ve been invited.
Fine, fine, a fucking camera crew is here too.
But I’m the only civilian, and I’m transfixed by the way she grabs a tube of mascara and meticulously swipes some on. As she does, her lips are parted, and I fight off a groan from that view of her mouth.
Soon, she’s done and declares, “And there you go.”
The videographer stops shooting. “That was great,” she says, friendly but efficient. “We need to go shoot the bride now. But we’ll catch up with you at the bakery. We can see ourselves out.”
They leave as quickly as they came, the door snicking loudly shut.
When they’re gone, and it’s just us and the quiet of her home, she locks eyes with me. “You were watching the whole time?”
It’s more curiosity than accusation. “You were doing something important to you,” I say, owning it. “What’d you think I was going to do? Look at my phone?”
She leaves the bathroom, joining me in the hall. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”
You’re much more interesting than anything I could scroll through.
But I keep that thought to myself. Don’t need her worrying that I’m obsessed with her.
She nods to her bedroom, then in a playful voice, says, “I guess I should go grab one of those so-called shoulder things.”
“Off-the-shoulder sweater, Remy; that’s what it’s called,” I say, teasing her right back.
She rolls her eyes, and heads to her bedroom but stops at the door. “And do you also have a request for what pants I wear?”
“I get to make requests? This is my lucky day.”
“It sure is.” She doesn’t know the half of it.
“What are the options?”
“Want to come see?”
Because every damn thing with Remy is a yes, I nod and follow her into her bedroom again, this time gobbling up all the details of her. Including my own surprise. I guess I’d thought it’d be super girly. Red bows on the wall, pink bedcovers. But it’s a little more earthy. Muted greens and beiges on her bed. Black and white photographs on the walls of cities like Paris and Tokyo.
Framed shots of her friends too. A small little jewelry box. I want to pick everything up and ask her questions. Instead, I follow her to the closet.
She opens it and then whips out hanger after hanger of jeans and pants, and all at once I’m overwhelmed. Maybe there’s a reason I’ve never really participated in this pre-getting-ready thing before. How the hell am I supposed to choose what pants she should wear?
“Everything looks good on you,” I say, speaking the truth plainly.
“But I need to pick. My sister said something fun. That was the dress code.”
“Okay,” I say, scrubbing a hand across my beard, scanning for something fun.
But then I spot it—a short little skirt on a rod behind her. My neck blazes. “That,” I rasp out.
She grabs it, holds it at her waist. “This?”
Holy shit. It’s short and black, and I’m just dead. “Is that a trick question?”
“Why would that be a trick question?”
I flail my hands at it. “Because yes. That. Wear that,” I say, more emphatic than when I tell my team let’s fucking go.
She shakes her head, smiling, then shoos me out of her room. “I’d better get dressed then.”
It’s like it’s Christmas Eve as I wait for her to emerge.
A minute later she walks out wearing a sweater that reveals the most enticing amount of pale flesh at her collarbone that I just want to kiss and lick and bite. That skirt that makes my jaw come unhinged. The way I’ve wanted her before is nothing compared to how much I want her now. Those legs. Those long, toned legs. Muscular calves, strong thighs…