Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
After that, we kept things surface level. He told me about his job and some of the men he had helped find new careers, and I told him stories of my online shopping horrors.
He smiled—a lot.
I think I smiled more though.
Throughout the day, I’d caught glimpses of longing in his eyes, felt the magnetic pull between us, and heard the way his voice caught every time he said my name. I tried to ignore the way my body reacted, keeping my distance from him as much as possible. But it was a futile effort, and more times than I could count, he’d walk behind me, squeezing my hip as he passed.
Just as he’d promised, he managed to get almost the entire floor laid by the time the sun began to set. I rocked back onto my heels as I pushed to my feet, my knees sure to be bruised in the morning. But for the first time since I’d decided to take this on, I looked around and felt proud.
“Wow, that tile looks amazing.”
Truett finished bagging the trash and nodded as he appraised his work. “It does look good. You’re welcome.”
I laughed, the sound coming from deep within. “I don’t recall saying thank you yet.”
“That smile on your face is all I need.”
My stomach dipped in all the best ways. “Let me get my stuff and I’ll drive you home.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can walk. I need to stretch my legs a bit anyway. For a minute there, I forgot I’m not twenty anymore.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? Just because we haven’t seen Taggart doesn’t mean he isn’t out there waiting for you.”
He shrugged. “My guess is he’s been watching me enough to know I only come here on Wednesdays. If not, he probably got tired of reading the Dear Abby columns taped to the windows and took off.”
“Maybe she had some advice about how to not be a dickhead and he took it to heart.”
Truett laughed, and the sound sent a rush of warmth through my bones.
“You have your son this weekend?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Nope. It’ll just be me, a bottle of wine, and a few gallons of paint all weekend.”
He paused, one hand on the door, and turned to face me. “I have to work tomorrow. But I’m all yours Saturday.”
His words caught me off guard. “Saturday?”
“Yep, the day after tomorrow. Usually people’s favorite day of the week. Mine’s Wednesday, but Thursdays are already starting to grow on me. Maybe Saturday will too.”
“Is that something you want to do? Come paint and grout and run the risk of electric shock as I try to install the light fixtures in this dump? With your ex-wife? On a Saturday?”
His free hand cupped my chin, his thumb rough as it brushed across my cheek. “The Gwendolyn Pierce standing in front of me may not be the same Gwen I was once married to. She may eat steaks now, she may not be able to cut a fucking tile straight to save her life, and she may have an insulting amount of confidence in my handyman abilities. But the Gwen of the present is still singlehandedly the only person I would want to spend my Saturday with. And stop calling it a dump. You’ve done some amazing things here already. I have no doubt that, when we finish, it’s going to be nothing short of incredible.”
God, why did that feel so good?
His use of when “we” finish.
The fact that he wanted to be there.
The fact that I wanted him to be there too.
The smolder of desire that had been kindling in my chest all day ignited. Before my logical brain could douse the flames, I blurted, “Were you going to kiss me in that booth yesterday?”
His hand slid down the column of my throat, his thumb resting at the base, my heart beating wildly beneath it as I anticipated his answer.
What was I anticipating? I didn’t know.
What did I want his response to be? I didn’t know the answer to that, either.
All I knew was that, if he didn’t say something soon, it was possible I would spontaneously combust right there at the door of my restaurant.
“I don’t think you asked me the right question, Gwen.”
Out of all the possible answers he could have given, that wasn’t one I’d expected. “I’m sorry?”
“Yesterday in that booth was past Truett. He doesn’t exist anymore. The only person here with you right now is present Truett. Maybe you should ask that question to him.”
My lips parted; my throat suddenly dry as I realized what he was saying to me. We’d spent the whole day comparing and contrasting the past and present. We weren’t the same people anymore—for better and for worse. So it made sense that he wouldn’t want to answer a question that was aimed at a man who was no longer there.