Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Dude is brilliant. “Sure. Good call.”
He gives an easygoing smile. “Had a feeling.”
I’m not usually this chatty with anyone but close friends. But I’m damn curious about something. “Do I give off buying a gift for a woman vibes?”
His smile widens and he nods knowingly. “Big time, man. Big time.”
Yeah, I’m a little obvious, but I don’t mind. When he’s done, I take the wrapped gifts, and thank him.
“Hope your—” he stops, perhaps rethinking girlfriend or wife, understandably, then shifts to, “Hope she likes them.”
Out of nowhere, my chest aches for a few seconds with the unsaid words. With a wish. But there’s no time to linger. “Me too.”
The bell chimes as I leave, and I’m about to hop back in the car, when I make a game day decision and rush into the bougie gourmet market next door. Juliet likes food, so I head to the deli counter and order a veggie grinder to go. With Gouda cheese of course. Then, a second for myself since it sounds good.
I don’t call first and ask if she’s hungry. If she cobbled together a meal while I was gone, this will keep till tomorrow. It’s more of a gift this way.
At the self-checkout, the man in front of me is buying a pretty bouquet of flowers and a box of cereal. That’s a good idea. I spin around, head to the floral section and grab some orange, peach and yellow roses that look like firecrackers. I grab one more thing for tomorrow’s date with the brewer then I’m done and out of there.
But once I’ve returned to the house and punched in six-nine-six-nine, the home is eerily quiet.
Hmm. That’s odd.
With the bags and bouquet in hand, I scan the living room. It’s dark. The kitchen looks dark from here too. It’s only eight-thirty. Maybe she conked out early? I toe off my shoes and pad quietly, just in case, but the hair on the back of my neck prickles with worry.
Fuck quiet.
“Juliet? Honey? Are you okay?”
I turn down the hall. No answer.
I pick up the pace, my heart skittering ridiculously with worry. Where is my Juliet and is everything okay? I turn into the bedroom, and my shoulders relax. She’s here. But she’s curled up on her side, hands tucked in prayer under her cheek. “Hey,” she says, groggily.
My heart goes too soft. “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I say, then close the distance and sit on the bed, snapping into practical mode. “Are you tired? What’s wrong? What can I do for you?”
She winces, her hand coming to her forehead gingerly. “I think I have a migraine.”
I set down the gifts on the bedroom floor, and take her hand, rubbing it. “Did you take Tylenol? Do you get migraines regularly? If so, do you have headache meds with you and where are they?”
She shakes her head. “I think it was the paint. The fumes got to me after a while.”
“Paint is the devil. But I thought you were supposed to leave it for me,” I say, sternly.
“I wanted to finish it. To surprise you.”
My heart tries to fight its way out of my chest. “You didn’t have to do that for me. You weren’t supposed to.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes. Because I wanted to finish it. For you.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t fight you for the last wall. The paint tried to kill me. I had to lie down. I fell asleep for a couple hours.”
I rub her hand more, unable to stop touching her. “Does it still hurt? It’s good that you’re lying down in the dark.”
“It does still hurt.”
Her small nod breaks my heart. “Let me get you some Tylenol.”
She doesn’t fight me on this either. “Thanks. I need it.”
I reach for the sandwich in the bag, brandishing the brown paper. “If you’re hungry, I got you a sandwich.”
“I love sandwiches,” she says.
I drop a kiss to her forehead, then whisper. “I know.”
I take off on a mission to do whatever I can to make her feel better. Back in town, I rush into The Slippery Dipper, which is closing in five minutes. The man greets me with a curious smile. “Hey there…”
But there’s no time for details. “I need a lavender eye mask.”
“Gotcha,” he says with a crisp nod, recognizing a spa emergency when he sees one.
Next, I’m back in the gourmet store, buying the world’s most expensive Tylenol, then I’m zipping back to the house. The lights are still low, but this time, one shines dimly from the bathroom. The door’s open, so I follow the soft glow, and…
Holy shit.
She is in the tub. She smiles at me. “Took the doctor’s advice.”
I drink in the sight of her in the claw-foot bathtub, draped in bubbles, with only the faintest lights on. It smells like warmth, of honey and cinnamon. Her hair’s piled high in a bun, wet strands framing her face.