Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
“Why do you say so?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “You kind of remind me of a big, cuddly bear. It’s inviting and makes you easy to talk to.”
“Cuddly?” His lips turn up on one side, and I think I might spot a dimple in his cheek.
“I mean you did kind of roar at those jackasses back there.”
“I want to go back in there and finish them.” A small growl leaves him, proving my point.
“But that could get us both in trouble.”
“It will do no such thing.”
“You think Mr. Wickham would have a problem with us being friends?”
“No, he would be more than okay with it.” He sounds so sure.
“Then instead of going back in there and unleashing the beast, let's get out of here.” I pull out my bus card. “I’ll let you swipe it too.” I playfully wiggle my brows. “Ride’s on me.”
“The bus?”
“Yes, the bus.” I laugh.
“I haven’t taken the bus in years.” That I can see. He might work for Mr. Wickham, but it clearly pays well going off his suit alone. “But if you want to, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“I do.” I loop my arm into his. “This way.” I give a small tug. “Are you hungry?” I ask, wanting to keep hanging out. Especially now that I know it’s more than okay.
“I could eat; where would you like to go?”
“Actually, back to my place?” I suggest. I have been hating the living space. It’s too big and empty. I swear my voice echoes in there when I talk to myself. Which is a habit I have. Charlie would fill up the space. “I can whip up something. I love cooking, and it's more fun when there is someone to feed and talk to.”
“I would love that.”
“Ope!” I squeak when I see the bus. “We'll miss it.” I tug on his arm hard, making him jog with me, and we make it on time. I laugh, swiping my bus card twice. “Here.” I tug him down to sit next to me.
“That was oddly fun.” He gives me a warm smile. I smile right back at him.
“It was.”
Less than an hour ago, my stomach was tight with nausea. Now it’s warm with a flutter inside. That coldness that's been lingering around me for the past week is starting to melt away, a spark of hope and something new blooming in its place.
Chapter Twelve
WICK
“This place seems nice.” I drape my coat over the back of the sofa. It looks warmer and brighter in person than it does on the grainy security cameras.
“It is pretty, isn’t it? But it’s big, and there’s only me here, so it feels empty. What’s your place like?” She casts a look over her shoulder.
I think of its white marble floor and even whiter walls and suppress a shiver. “Cold.”
“As in you should buy a rug or paint a wall?”
“Probably both.”
“Can you handle a potato peeler?”
I blink at the rapid change of subject. “Yeah.”
“Great. Peel these potatoes while I go change. I don’t want to get my dress dirty.”
“Good call. It’s a pretty dress.” I particularly like how it makes her look like an hourglass, all tiny waist and big hips. My big hands would be a nice accessory around her middle. I could also envision bending her over the kitchen counter, flipping up that skirt, and sinking deep between her legs. My groin tightens at that mental image. I force my eyes away from the candy in front of me to stare at a blank space over her head. Friends do not walk around each other’s apartments with a hard-on.
“Thanks.” The fabric rustles as she smooths her hands over her stomach, adding a little soundtrack to the dirty movie that’s playing in my head. Add a few moans and I’m toast. I walk over to the sink and open the glasses cupboard.
“Do you mind?” I pause in front of the cold water spout at the sink.
“No, help yourself. I’ll be right back.”
I take the time alone to drink three glasses of water and swallow an ice cube. Only when I start counting my grandmother’s moles in my head does my fevered want subside. When Belle returns dressed in a pair of shapeless sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, I have myself under control, peeling the last of the potatoes.
“Where’d you get the dress?” I ask. I want to go and buy some more for her. Maybe one in every color.
“I made it.” Her cheeks pinken as she confesses.
“No shit?” I stop peeling to stare at her in amazement.
“Yeah. It’s not as big of a deal as you think. I just followed a pattern. The bodice is the hardest part because it’s fitted, but the skirt is just a rectangle gathered at the waist.”
“What else have you sewn?” I’m fascinated. I wonder if she’d let me watch her put something like that together.