Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Wow,” Madison says as she lifts her chin, that perfect little nose of her flexing as she breathes in. “I want whatever that is.”
I don’t even try to fight the smile that pulls up the corners of my mouth. Emily hated this place. Processed meats and full fat cheeses weren’t her thing, yet I’m practically salivating thinking about the naan bread I’m going to eat with the hummus platter.
“The entire menu then?” I ask.
She opens one eye to glare at me, frowning as if just speaking has ruined her whole dining experience. I snap my mouth closed with her warning, content to just listen to the excitement in her rumblings for food.
Maybe sustenance is the way to get her into a more manageable mood. Before the coffee, her attitude was monstrous. After taking a sip, she became much more amenable.
Our waitress heads over, not getting an ounce of attitude from Madison for having her air sniffing interrupted. I watch her interact with the woman, speaking animatedly about flavored teas, and realize two things very quickly. Her Southern charm is positively adorable, and I may possibly be the only person who she hates.
The second the waitress is done taking our order, the smile slides from her pretty face.
“Why do you hate me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
If it’s something I can fix, then I’ll do it. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles.
Instead of answering, her frown deepens. “I don’t hate you.”
As much as I want to, I don’t argue with her.
Maybe hate is too strong of a word. Maybe it carries with it too much attention or too much commitment. Maybe she doesn’t hate me. Maybe she doesn’t think of me at all.
Wouldn’t it be easier if I were capable of the same thing?
Drinks are delivered and somehow Madison has ended up with a flight of flavored teas.
“Is that lemon blueberry?” I guess because of the fresh fruit floating in it.
She smacks my hand like I’m a toddler when I reach for it.
“Get your own,” she says, but there’s a little humor in her tone rather than the usual ire that’s directed at me.
I know not to mistake the giddiness as a reprieve. The woman is just excited to try all the teas.
I watch, sipping the soda I now regret ordering, as she opens a straw and sticks it into the first tea, capping the top with her finger before lifting it to her mouth and letting it drain across her tongue like I’ve seen numerous bartenders do to make sure a drink is made correctly.
I swear on everything holy that this woman is purposely trying to torture me, but then I’m struck with a wave of guilt at the memory of her telling me that it’s not her fault I can’t control the way I react to people. She all but called me rapey and gross, although it was implied.
I take a deep breath, puffing my lips out when I release it.
I could make a sport of watching her enjoy things. Now that I know speaking ruins her experience, I choose to remain silent and just enjoy the show, finding myself smiling when she does and scrunching my nose the same way when she discovers that she made a mistake in ordering what looks to be dragon fruit and lime.
“Is it gross?”
Her answer is in the way she slides the drink in my direction. I stare down at it, the straw she lifted to her mouth in it, feeling more intimate than it probably should.
Just as I reach for the glass, my phone rings.
“You going to answer that?” she asks with the straw to the lemon blueberry tea hovering over her mouth.
I rush to pull out my phone, catching it right before it goes to voicemail.
My heart races for a whole different reason when I lift it to my ear.
“Emily? What’s wrong?”
“Where are you?” she growls. “The guy at the front desk won’t tell me what room you’re in.”
I tilt my head, confusion clogging my brain for having to switch gears so quickly.
“Can we get these to go?” Madison asks as the waitress begins to pull our food from her tray. “I’d be so appreciative if you could bag it for us.”
The waitress gives her a smile before nodding and walking away to do her bidding.
“We’re at lunch. Where are the boys?”
“Here with me, idiot,” she growls. “Why are you at lunch?”
I stand from the table. “It’s what people do when they’re hungry. Stay there. We’re coming back.”
I end the call, angry that she wasted our time.
“Drink this,” Madison says, holding up the lemon blueberry tea, a sad offering that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy right now if I wanted to.
“No thanks,” I grumble, looking toward the kitchen.