Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Yes, but they’re also fifty cents apiece at happy hour at the Marina Point Grill on Thursdays,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “And they never crawled through the dirt in my garden.”
“Dirt isn’t inherently dirty.”
“Garden dirt is,” she counters. “Gramps adds cow dung to ours as fertilizer.”
“Well, as I said before, anything you don’t care for, I’m happy to put on my plate. But I didn’t take you for a coward.”
She bristles as she sits up straighter. “I’m not a coward. I’m just…confused by snails on a plate.”
“Better than a bunny on a plate,” I remind her. “No small, fluffy creatures were harmed in the making of our meal. And some might say working through one’s confusion is an act of bravery, Sully.”
“Ugh. Yuck. Fine. You’re right. I may be many things, but I’m not a coward.” She reaches for her fork, mimicking the way I’ve slid a single snail onto the edge of my bread. When it’s ready, she lifts it to hover in front of her mouth. “On three? We go for it at the same time?”
“Sure,” I say, humoring her though I’ve had snails enough times to know these are going to be incredible.
“One, two…” She pulls in a breath, letting it out in a rush as she adds, “Three.”
We both bite down into crusty grilled bread and plump, perfectly seasoned snails.
She chews, her expression still tight with uncertainty, but after only a beat or two, the tension fades from her features.
“Oh, wow,” she says, her mouth still full. She chews for another moment, moaning softly as her eyes slide closed. “Wow.” She swallows and brings her napkin from her lap to her lips, sitting quietly for a moment.
“Good?”
Her eyes open. “I think I just had a food-induced orgasm,” she whispers, making me smile. Again.
And not just smile, but laugh and assure her, “There’s more where that came from. I ordered all the best things. Now try the pastry with pears and Gorgonzola. Quick, before it gets cold.”
“Bossy, bossy,” she mutters, but I can tell she doesn’t mind. She’s already loading a slice of the pastry onto her plate and warning me as I reach for another snail, “Leave me at least one more of those.”
“I’ll leave you two,” I assure her before adding in a whisper loud enough for her to hear, “Now who’s bossy?”
She laughs, her eyes crinkling in a way that makes it impossible not to return her grin. “It’s me. I’m super bossy. All the time. If we’re going to be hanging out, you’ll have to get used to it, Mr. Fancy.”
Oh, I could get used to it, all right. I could get used to a lot of things about this beautiful, vibrant woman.
But I can’t let this ache get any more intense. She’s not a painting in a museum; she’s a human being, and they always let you down, sooner or later. At least, with Sully, however, I doubt the let-down would be intentional. She’s a good, honest person. If she disappoints me, it will be because she’s staying true to who she is, and you can’t blame another human being for that. Living in integrity is an admirable thing, even if one person’s version of integrity is very different than another’s.
We move on to our second course and our third, both of us growing increasingly drunk on good food and better company, no bottle of wine required. By the time I pay the bill and we step out onto the boardwalk outside the hotel to walk off our meal, I can’t resist reaching for her hand.
She casts a startled look my way, but after a beat, her fingers curl around mine. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Fancy.”
“You can call me Weaver.”
She seems to mull that over for a moment before she says, “Maybe I will. And maybe I’ll come over tomorrow night. I have dinner with Gramps tonight at the lodge, but…”
“You would be very welcome tomorrow night,” I say. “I’ll look for you as soon as it’s dark enough to sneak down to the dock.”
She nods. “I’ll be the one dressed all in black.”
“But wear nice panties this time,” I say, earning a glare from her.
“I don’t own any nice panties,” she shoots back. “I have cotton briefs. You’ll just have to make due with those and be glad that you get the chance to take them off of me.”
I tighten my grip on her fingers. “Oh, I will be. Very glad.”
I’ll be far more than “glad,” but I don’t tell her that. I just pull her against me in the shade of a beach shack that’s closed for the season and kiss her, devouring her sweet mouth until she’s moaning for me far louder than she moaned for the escargot.
Take that, snails.
chapter 11
GERTIE
Can a person be considered a sex fiend for just thinking about sex twenty-four seven?