Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“No whipped cream or bananas?” My head is still stuck on the fact that he’s holding my hand. Willingly. I glance down just to see the connection firsthand again.
Chuckling, he connects his gaze with mine for the first time since we crossed. Life has returned to his eyes, a playful mischievousness, but only for the quickest moment in time before he returns his focus ahead of us. “Not needed.”
“Speak for yourself. Don’t you just love popping that cherry?” His feet stop suddenly, causing my body to yank in protest because I foolishly kept walking without noticing the change in pace. I steady my footing, angling to look up at him. “What?”
“You can’t say things like that and expect me not to react.”
“Say what?” Rewinding through the immediate conversation, I laugh. “The cherry thing? I didn’t even think of it that way, ya dirty bird.”
“I’m the dirty bird?” He manages his broken arm against his chest as if my insinuation inspired the move. But it’s not that side effect that has my chest feeling tight. It’s that he forfeited using his “good” hand in lieu of holding my hand. He’s chuckling. “I’m not the one going around talking about popping cherries. You are with your wide blue eyes and those lips that look dipped in juice.”
“Juice?”
“Cherry juice.”
“Oh.” And although I have so many follow-up questions to that statement, we’re not those people. We’re enemies who have laid down our weapons for a little while, and this hand-holding business has muddled my emotions. “It’s a new lip stain I bought at the drugstore earlier this week. Glad it’s working.”
“It’s working alright.”
I hold tight to the thoughts busying my mind, the ones that are sending my heart to beat into overdrive. I swallow them down to protect myself. Maybe it’s the conversation or the warmth of his hand or the good time this has turned into, but if I’m not careful, I might fall for this man. Even if he is getting easier on the eyes as time passes, I can’t let it happen. Not when I know the real circumstances of our relationship.
Keeping my head on straight, my heart in check, and him in the dark is best. I slip my hand out of his as easily as I had placed it there. He carries on like it makes no difference at all to him, rambling on about something to do with density in creams and how gelato is made in some special way. It’s dumb that I’ve put myself in a position of being vulnerable to him. I’m probably just tired and out of sorts from the chaotic few days we’ve lived.
“Where did you say this place was?”
With a glance over at me, he grins. “I didn’t. I know a place nearby, though.”
I desperately need this distraction. My head is doing me in when he’s not already affecting me. To get out of my brain altogether, I hold my fingers to my mouth and send a chef’s kiss. “I need a little something for my sweet tooth.”
“You have a sweet tooth?”
“Kind of. It’s more for desserts at night than candy during the day.”
I hear his hum before he mutters under his breath, “Fascinating.”
Not worrying about his views on anything to do with me, and more focused back on why he’s suddenly treating me like his wife, I should move this along. “Why does it feel so late?”
Checking his watch, he replies, “Eight fifteen.”
“Would you be mad if we skipped this trip and headed back to the apartment?”
“Why would I be mad?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. You wanted gelato?”
“I can have gelato waiting for us before we get back home.” Home rolls off his tongue so effortlessly that goosebumps cover my arms in response. “I’ll need to borrow your phone, though. Mine is still mysteriously missing.”
Pulling my phone from my purse, I hand it to him. He only has it long enough to make a quick call and hand it back to me. But it’s enough time for my heart to squeeze from this turn in the relationship, the way I feel safe in his company while still quietly reveling in the use of the word home like it represents both of us.
When he’s finished, he steps to the curb, looking both ways. When his arm goes into the air, I realize it’s a getaway. But not from me. With me. To go “home” together.
I had already planned to stay the night, and after the way goose bumps covered my skin from just a brush of his lips against my neck, I can’t say I’m opposed to more. But Warner is making me think that gelato is code for a trap, especially when a cab pulls to the curb and he’s quick to open the door for me. It was one thing when I was leading this charge, but under his command, what situation am I getting myself into?