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)
“You did, and I appreciate it,” he says.
I flip him the bird, and we play ferociously for twenty more minutes until I notice him yawning. Actually…has he been plagued by yawns for a while now?
He’s only had one beer, so I’m not worried about him driving under the influence. I am worried about how tired he is even as he studies the board like an eagle.
Finally, he plays the word my off of clamjam, finishing the game. Getting to his feet, he unleashes another yawn as he says, “Pay up.”
That’s decided. “You need to stay here, buddy.”
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head.
“Yes. You do. It’s not optional.”
He sighs, then scratches his jaw, shrugging in admission. “I mean, it’s a big house. And the furniture’s all still here so…”
I gulp. Shit. I’m going to have to face up to some modicum of the truth. We don’t have a spare bedroom in The Horny House. Only spare chaise lounges. I could offer him my bunk, but the last time I was in that bed, I fucked his sister. Soooo…
“There are a bunch of chaises,” I offer.
His brow knits. “That’s not weird.”
I quickly explain, and he says gamely, “When in Rome.” After we put the board away, he drops his beer bottle into the recycling bin, then stops with his hand still raised. “But where are you and Juliet sleeping?”
The kernel of guilt turns into a grapefruit as I pick up my half-full bottle, staring at it rather than him. “There’s…a big bunk bed.”
“You’re sharing a bunk bed? Are you eight?”
The guilt expands to watermelon size. I wish I could tell him the truth. I wish I could say I can’t stop thinking about your sister, and how much more I want than this little experiment.
“There wasn’t anything else,” I say.
With a nod, he accepts that, then cuts across the kitchen, but he stops again in the doorway, turning around. “And listen, I’ve been meaning to ask something all night.”
I fiddle with the beer label then take a drink. “Yeah?”
“How long have you been into my sister?”
I didn’t think spit takes were a real thing until just now.
Sawyer laughs at my expression. “I thought so.”
“Fuck,” I grumble, dragging my free hand through my hair. So much for taking the high road.
“Impressive that you’re not denying it.”
“There’s no point. How did you…”
He scoffs as he returns to the table. “Not born yesterday. That whole dopey gaze when you talked about the store was a dead giveaway.”
“Dammit.” I’m so transparent.
He nods in agreement. “What are you going to do about it?”
“You’re not going to tell me to stay the fuck away from her?”
He rolls his eyes. “What am I? Eight?”
Fair point. “I appreciate that.” I lean back in the chair, sighing heavily. “I don’t know, Sawyer. Your sister deserves the world.”
“Yeah, she does. You can’t give that to her?”
I want to. I desperately want to. “My track record is shit. I wasn’t a good husband.”
“You didn’t cheat on Elizabeth, did you, man?”
“No. There are other ways to be a bad husband.”
“And what were yours?”
“I was emotionally unavailable, Elizabeth said.”
He snorts. “She was emotionally unavailable. Dude, you picked a woman who was obsessed with work.”
I chew on that for a beat. He’s not wrong. Elizabeth was a workaholic, but so was I. “I’d be the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Maybe so, but she was also driven, ambitious, and single-minded.”
“And it didn’t work out,” I add, then tap my chest. “Look at me now, I’m thirty-five, divorced and married to my job.”
“That’s your choice,” he says, no ire, no judgment. Just an honest assessment.
“I want to be the best for my clients. They come to me for help and deserve someone who doesn’t phone it in,” I say, a little defensively.
He laughs, shaking his head. “If you’re honest with them, you ought to be honest with yourself.” He levels me with a hard stare, the kind that only a good friend can deliver. “You’re afraid you’re going to be like your dad.”
Ouch. That stings. “That’s the problem with friends who know you too well.”
“Yup. They know you too well.”
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, letting his comments sink in. But really, this very reality has been sinking in for a few decades now. My father’s been detached and dismissive since I was thirteen, probably before then too, so I taught myself to rely only on myself. That shit’s hard to unlearn, harder to undo. Risky too. If I tried and failed, the collateral damage would be worse—Juliet. “You’re not wrong. But the thing is I don’t want to hurt her.”
Sawyer leans forward, elbows on the table. “I get that. But you’re the only one who knows what you’re capable of,” he says, ending his observation on a big, hearty yawn.
He stretches his arms, and quietly we leave the kitchen, gather blankets for the chaise. Once he flops down on it, he’s out like a light.