Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“The dude who treated me like a high-class escort?”
Wes’s eyebrows immediately dart down in confusion. “Who told you that?”
“Why would someone need to tell me that? I was there.” Folding my black crop top sweater sleeves across my chest is followed by an annoyed headshake. “He smelt like sandalwood and sadness and nearly shit his pants trying to bail before you blackballed him.”
“I remember hearing all about that and how much you love public sex when I was finally allowed visitors.”
“I’ve always loved public sex.”
“Yes, but that was the first time you could openly have public sex, which both increased and decreased the thrill.”
“That’s right!”
“I’m going to skip the page regarding you discussing our sex life with your mother-”
“Pretty sure we’ve been over that.”
“-and land on the one where we acknowledge you having a memory that you didn’t have to read somewhere.”
“Holyshit!” All of a sudden, my eyes widen in shock. “Holyshit! I did! I really fucking did!”
“We’ll make sure to mention that at your work medical assessment on Monday.”
Excited squeaks can’t be contained.
Okay, yeah.
I obviously don’t remember everything yet, but the fact I am remember anything…anything that I didn’t have to use a study guide for is progress.
And I need progress.
I need my life getting somewhere closer to the realm of normal.
“I’ll mostly be in meetings today; however, I’m always available if you need me.”
Salaciously scooting closer is accompanied by a flirty smirk. “And if I want you?”
“Same rules apply.”
“And if I wanna have dinner with you tonight?”
The corner of Wes’s lips smugly kicks upward. “Like a date, Ms. Kyle?”
“Like a date, Mr. Wayne.”
“Be ready by seven.”
I wrap my hands around the arms of his chair and lean forward. “Eight.”
“Seven.”
Crashing my mouth onto his causes him to groan over the initial contact yet the instance my lips widen just enough to grant his tongue access to mine, the sound amplifies.
Intensifies.
Leads to him winding one hand around my throat to keep me pinned in place as he reiterates what he’s commanded versus what I’m trying to negotiate.
Abruptly pulling back prompts him to unexpectedly pant presenting me with the perfect opportunity to declare, “Seven thirty it is.”
Grumbles of submission slip loose prior to him finishing the lashing he keeps fairly light due to the other person in the room.
Afterward, I bid them both goodbye, grab my Star Trek fanny pack I get the feeling Wes was trying to hide from me, and summon Lurch away from his not-so-secret sexting with Jessie.
Neither of them are good about hiding the fact they’re fucking.
Mom and I had a whole convo about it last night during our monthly medical and mocktails night, which is apparently something we agreed would be a good way for us to keep our mother-daughter bond in spite of the fact I myself am a mom too.
We drink frozen blended beverages and binge old medical dramas – Nurse Jackie has some killer lines – while Clark, Wes, Wy – and sometimes Puppet Boy – do their own less laidback activity such as a sporting event or bookstore trip or even feeding the ducks after having sandwiches at Mo Mo’s.
I think it’s a good balance for our family.
One that I enjoyed restoring.
Huh.
And since we’re on the subject of restoring, I think it’s time to restore another relationship.
Like one with the person, I have a feeling has a matching Star Trek fanny pack.
“Lurch,” I lean forward between the seats, “detour to the Reeses.”
“You could say please.”
“You could be more subtle about fucking my son’s barely legal nanny.”
“She’s more than barely legal,” he mindlessly argues, admission of guilt swiftly following the statement. Arrogance bounces my eyebrows prior to him sighing, “Detour it is.”
Our quick change in direction to their end of the property doesn’t add more than a couple minutes to our journey and damn sure doesn’t require letting Wes in on it.
No, I don’t need his approval, but I know he worries.
Honestly?
He’ll probably worry less if I’m out with a bestie.
Or who knows.
Perhaps more.
I’ve seen our photos.
We’ve made way too many headlines for chicks not starring in their own Real Housewives reality show.
Taking the stone path through their landscaping up to the front door of their house – that’s resembles more of a resort home than anything in the guest living quarters department – not only allows me a minute to relish in the warm, early fall sun, it gives me adequate time to consider what exactly it is I should say.
I mean how do you talk to your best friend that you don’t even remember is your best friend?
Although, can it really be any weirder than fucking your husband that you have no recollection of being your husband?
Ringing the doorbell is done the instant I arrive and sliding my palms into my back jean pockets occurs next.
About two minutes later, one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen in real life, appears in the doorway, barefoot, with a messy bun, and a Spock printed “Trek Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself” cropped t-shirt.