Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
If you ask my sister Abby, it’s why I was an ornery son of a bitch much of the time, an affliction she cured me of a few years ago by finally calling me on the carpet about it. While I can be shrewd and cutthroat in business, I’ve learned to become the softer, gentler Ethan Blackburn when it comes to my family relationships.
And now… that is extending to Marcie DeLeon, the first woman I’ve ever been interested in for something other than a quick tumble.
I’m sure I’ll figure it out quickly enough, this whole dating thing, because Marcie is so easy to be around. I’m definitely more excited than nervous to spend time with her on a personal level, but I still have doubts about whether I’m doing the right thing. When I impulsively asked her out, I was only thinking about my own wants and desires. And that is to get to know her better because she intrigues me like no other woman ever has.
Most of my uncertainty comes from the fact that Marcie is Sylvie’s principal and I didn’t consider that last night when I extended the invite. Sylvie sees Marcie as a trusted ally and I don’t want to take that away from her. It’s why I didn’t tell my daughter about my date tonight, but I didn’t tell anyone for that matter. The entire Blackburn family—minus Sylvie, who is staying home with Miranda—will be there tonight and I know I’ll probably have some explaining to do when I show up with Marcie on my arm.
I want to make a good impression on her, so in addition to the finely cut suit, I ditch my work truck and take my mom’s Mercedes. She didn’t ask me why, but she’ll find out soon enough.
The GPS leads me to Marcie’s street, just two blocks off the main thoroughfare of Shelbyville, and I’m absolutely charmed when I pull alongside the curb to take in her small house. A concrete path extends from the home to the street, flanked by low-lying shrubs blooming with pink flowers. The house is quaint with shingled siding in the palest mint green done in fiber cement, which puts the house most likely built in the fifties or sixties, as are most of the downtown homes. The centered front door has been done in a beautiful walnut stain and sits between two equally spaced, double-hung windows with matching shutters in the same warm, brown tint. A gabled porch roof is supported by four Craftsman columns that shade a flat, concrete porch. The metal roof is steeply pitched with a redbrick chimney extending from the left side and matching brick skirts the base of the house. Two steps extend down from the porch, also done in redbrick and decorated by pots overflowing with blooming petunias.
It’s totally Marcie and I couldn’t imagine her living anywhere that would suit her better. If I hadn’t had her address but knew she lived on this street, I would’ve picked this house as being hers. It’s beautiful and charming, just like she is.
My nerves snap a bit tighter as I turn off the engine. Inside is the woman who makes me want to step out of my comfort zone. I’m not sure if it’s because of the many kindnesses she extends to Sylvie, or the fact that she’s been hurt, which makes me feel protective. Maybe it’s just that I am unbelievably attracted to her, but one thing is clear… I know I want more than one date with her.
Last night, we stayed in the show barn outside Squid’s stall talking about anything and everything. The conversation was easy and I love her laugh. It’s deep and raspy, like the promise of something big getting ready to unfurl from that brilliant smile.
Taking a deep breath, I exit the car and stroll up to the front porch. I spare a glance at the petunias in pink, white and purple. I don’t know much about flowers or gardening in particular, but petunias are a favorite of my mom’s, so I recognize them. There is no doorbell, so I knock on the heavy wooden door and as I’m waiting for Marcie to open it, I notice that one of the shutters hangs at an angle. I step over, look more closely and notice one of the large screws has come out and is nowhere to be seen.
I hear the clicking of high heels on hardwood and my pulse kicks up a notch as I turn back toward the door. Because I’ve only ever seen Marcie in casual or work clothes, my imagination is in overdrive.
When she swings the door open, I am not prepared for the sex appeal standing in front of me. She chose an elegant black cocktail dress that is off the shoulder and cut into a deep V, exposing a hint of cleavage. A rhinestone-studded brooch sits right in the center and it takes all my will not to stare at it. The dress is formfitting and comes down just to her knees, her legs clad in silky black stockings. The high heels add a good four inches, bringing the top of her head nearly to my chin. Her red hair is styled in loose curls that hang just over the tops of her bare shoulders and Christ, if I don’t love the freckles splattered there. They are markings on a woman that I could spend a lot of time exploring with my mouth.