Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
He arches a brow my way. “And you’re the upbeat, sassy chocolatier.”
I give a half-twirl, my skirt swinging playfully, Marilyn Monroe style. “Deal with it,” I say, then poke him in the side. “You’ve got yourself an exuberant business partner.”
“I sure do,” he says.
A sliver of doubt digs into me as we near a romance is in the air window display of pink and red and purple paperbacks with cartoon couples at An Open Book. Is he saying my go-for-it attitude is a bad thing? I kind of hoped he’d balance me out. “Look, I’ve always been excited about things, chances, opportunities. But are you worried that we’re being too impulsive?”
“I am definitely worried, but I’m doing it anyway.” His tone is surprisingly raw and I appreciate the honesty so much.
I curl a hand around his biceps, nice and sturdy. “We’re doing it. And I am going to do everything I can to make it work,” I say, wanting him to feel some of my optimism.
His eyes meet mine. “I can tell you want it to work. That means a lot to me,” he says, holding my gaze and speaking from the heart. Both make my stomach flip. Both make my chest tingle too.
This man and all his little moments of raw honesty, sexy compliments, and big gestures…I don’t know what I’d do if our romance was real. I’d probably melt into a puddle. It’s good we’re not actually together. I’d get nothing done but swooning.
Instead, I tip my forehead to the coffee shop on the next block. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee, my darling fiancé. You take it straight up black, no sugar, I bet?”
“And you take yours in latte form, with two shots of vanilla and extra foam,” he says, playful once more.
“Life is short,” I say, a declaration. No, it’s a rallying cry.
“It sure is,” he says as we reach Doctor Insomnia’s, the chalkboard sign with the cup of coffee inviting us in.
A few minutes later, we’re settling into a table at the back and my own words echo in my mind—life is short.
So is this engagement. But there’s no reason I can’t get to know my fake fiancé better. “Back at the sign shop, I was thinking you’re an overthinker, but now I suspect you go with your gut. And your gut was telling you the sign was wrong. But here’s what I want to know—is that from your parents or your grandma?”
He blinks, perhaps taken aback.
Maybe I am too.
Normally, on a second date, I wouldn’t ask such a personal question. I have a propensity for falling too hard, too fast, too foolishly. But this isn’t a real second date. It’s a chance to get to know my business partner and my fake fiancé, so I’m taking it.
16
OUR PREDICAMENT
Gage
Elodie just goes for it. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s always been bold. Upfront. Gutsy.
I appreciate that in a woman. In a person. It’s worlds better than the style of living I saw growing up—with the jabs, and the pokes, and the prods from my father.
I take a thoughtful sip of coffee and give her an honest answer since she deserves to know who she’s getting into business with. “My dad’s a hard-ass. He was always really hard on Zane and me. Try harder, get better grades, throw faster, hit better. But he did that to our mom too. He got on her case about everything from how she folded laundry, to how she stacked the dishwasher, to how she brushed her teeth.”
“I take it they’re not together?”
I shake my head, so damn grateful Mom got out of that situation. “Nope. She finally left him after I graduated from high school. Wish it were sooner, but thank fuck she did it.” I take a sip of my coffee—black, as she’d suspected. “It took her a while to meet someone new. She married again recently and now she’s traveling the world with her new guy. Zane’s traveling, too, with his partner. They’re both ridiculously happy,” I say with a smile I feel deep in my soul. I’m truly happy for my brother and for my mom. “They deserve all the good things.”
She smiles softly. “They do.” For a second, I fear she’s about to ask but do you, and I’m not sure I want to answer that. After a pause, she says, “But you’re hard on yourself, aren’t you?”
The caring tone unlocks a part of me. The part that doesn’t always share. That hasn’t really shared since I was in therapy several years ago. “Sure. I guess I’m always asking myself if I’ve done enough—at work, with Eliza, with coaching, with friends.” I force out a laugh at my own expense. “Probably the only time I don’t is when I’m making soap.”
“You make soap?”
“Handmade.”
She shakes her head with a big smile on her face. “That’s too much.”