Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
No time to linger, though, since Ellie’s steering the convo, and she looks like she’s ready to issue a declaration as she sets a hand on my arm. “I’m glad you’re remaking yourself here with friends and family, Rachel. San Francisco looks good on you.” She turns to Carter, her boss mode activated. “And you’re looking out for my girl?”
Carter’s all resolute as he nods. “Absolutely.”
“Good. You’d better be my eyes and ears. I want you bringing her soup if she gets sick. I want you to binge-watch TV shows with her at least once a week,” she says, and I roll my eyes. I simultaneously love Ellie looking out for me and want to tell her to stop. I’m not that broken. Except, soup and TV does sound nice, even when I’m not sick. Maybe especially when I’m not sick. “And I definitely want you to do that nerdy thing you two always did,” Ellie adds.
“Puzzles,” I say in unison with Carter, then I continue, “Don’t worry. We’re on that.”
Ellie smiles at us like we’re adorable. “Seriously. You two are like brother and sister,” she says with a smile.
I cough-laugh while Carter snorts.
Did he catch me staring at him salaciously earlier? Does he know I had very un-brotherly thoughts about him?
Oh, shit.
Oh, hell.
He was so gracious about the incident. I should be the same.
After Ellie rejoins Gabe, it’s just Carter and me again, hanging out by the piano. I sip champagne. He takes a pull of his beer. For a few seconds, we’re just quiet, listening together as the woman at the keys taps out a tune that sounds vaguely romantic. I look into Carter’s warm brown eyes, and I feel a little fizzy.
Not at all how I feel when I look at my brother.
But Carter is my friend, so I swallow past the awkwardness, and say, “Thanks again for offering to take me home later. But it turns out I’m being girl-napped for a pajama party at Elodie’s.”
“Juliet mentioned that earlier. She marched over to me pretty much right after the toast.”
That’s so Juliet. “She likes to be in charge. Of everything.”
“She picked the right profession then,” he says, giving me a secret little smile. “Now, this pajama party—will there be a pillow fight?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “No pillow fights.”
“Too bad,” he says, then adds a little apologetically, “And no problem. I have an early bedtime anyway.”
He’s disciplined with his sleep. More than most athletes, and I get it. “Yes, you do,” I say, wagging a finger. “You need to leave by eleven. In bed by eleven-thirty.”
“And since I’ll be solo, that means I get to blast Taylor Swift as I drive home.”
“You and your Taylor obsession.”
“What can I say? She just knows me,” he says, shameless in his devotion to the pop star.
And I know this man too. As a friend. That’s what we are. “We should definitely go to Puzzle Nerds. Whenever you’re free,” I add.
There.
“We have a Monday night game. So I need to get into game-mode tomorrow night. And all day Sunday. Obviously, Monday is out,” he says, then scratches his jaw, lined with one-day stubble. Or is that two days? Maybe more? Maybe even the start of some yummy scruff. How would that scruff feel to the touch? “But Tuesday could work.”
To touch his scruff?
Oh, right. Puzzle acquisition.
“Perfect,” I say. We were going to restart our puzzle club. That’s safe. It’s not like puzzles are sexy. You don’t set up candles and play soft music and feed each other strawberries as you slide puzzle piece into puzzle piece.
“Just you and me. Like old times.”
Before all the flashing incidents. “Let’s do it. And thanks again for earlier in the car. And the makeup. And everything. I owe you big time.”
“You don’t. But it’s no problem.”
However, I do want to get one thing out in the open. “And, um, I guess one good flashing deserves another,” I say. His expression is blank for a second, almost confused, so I sputter: “In Daisy’s Duds. When you were all…you know…man-chest-y.”
He smirks. “Man-chest-y? Is that what we call it?”
I raise my chin. “Yes. But I can’t promise it’s a Scrabble word.”
“Maybe someday.” He lifts his beer bottle, takes a drink, and I stare at his lips. His full, lush lips.
I blink away thoughts of them and focus. I am a laser. “Anyway, I was just thinking how it’s sort of the same thing. I mean, not exactly. Not entirely the same. One will get you an R-rating in a movie. The other just makes you want to, well, gawk.”
Okay, maybe I wasn’t a laser.
His lips twitch. “Gawk, Rachel?”
Gah. I’m making this worse. “I’m just saying—”
“—I know what you mean.” He lets me off the hook. “It’s good we can joke about it. Maybe we’ll even need a commemorative Man-Chest-y mug.”