Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
“Apt description. Now you know why I’m not a fan of the holidays. My life fell the fuck apart to the tune of ‘Frosty the Snowman’ and ‘Jingle Bells.’ Fun stuff.” Joe snorted sarcastically.
I set my hand on his back and rubbed a soothing circle between his shoulder blades, wishing I could say something other than “I’m sorry.” I was a writer, for fuck’s sake. I had an arsenal of pretty words and built-in platitudes I could make sound like poetry. Nothing came.
In fact, just the opposite occurred. I had an inexplicable urge to do something completely insane and share my own holiday-hating woes.
Screech. Nope. Not a good idea.
I massaged his neck and tousled his hair, then resumed my spot as sentry against the wall.
“Did you say your coach’s name was O’Toole?”
“Mmhmm. He was a scary motherfucker,” Joe drawled. “His voice was shot from years of screaming at teenagers, hoping one of them would turn into a damn prodigy.”
I chuckled lightly. “He must be related to Margaret O’Toole, the young bride killed an hour before her wedding.”
“Yeah, probably. Maybe a great great-great-aunt or something. There are a ton of O’Tooles in Fallbrook.” Joe sat on his heels and shot a sardonic lopsided smile my way. “I hate to break this to you, but none of them were alive a hundred and ten years ago, Cam.”
“Ha. Ha. They might have old family records, though.”
He shrugged. “I doubt it. I mean…do you have family photos or documents from 1912 laying around in your house?”
“No, but—”
“Your best bet is city hall.”
“I’ve already been there. And I scoured the library too.”
He stood quickly and dropped his tool into his apron. “If you’re here to get inspiration however you can, you should check out the cemetery too.”
He was in my space, mudding my senses with logic and body heat. I lost the thread of our conversation as desire zinged through my system like a renegade pinball. He hooked his thumbs under the elastic of my sweats and ghosted his lips over mine in a featherlight kiss.
I closed my eyes. “Yes…I—”
Ding dong.
Joe cocked his head curiously. “You expecting visitors?”
“No.” I pulled at a pocket on his apron. “Probably a solicitor. They’ll go away.”
“Hmph. I doubt that anyone—” Ding dong. Joe sighed. “Hang tight. I’ll answer it.”
I was more than happy to let him handle the unexpected visitor, but the feminine squeal of delight coming from the foyer spurred me to investigate.
A tiny older woman dressed in a bright-pink puffy coat that clashed with the slightly unnatural shade of her red curly hair enveloped Joe in a mega hug. She smacked his left bicep as she released him.
“I saw your truck and had to stop. Tony said that he met the famous author and I think I’m the only one who hasn’t and—” She turned with a gasp when she spotted me hovering like a thief in the doorway. “Oh, Mr. Warren! It’s you!”
Joe winced adorably as he slung his arm around the woman’s shoulder. “Sorry for the interruption. This is my nosy mother.”
His nosy mother elbowed him in the stomach and clasped my outstretched hand with both of hers in a surprisingly strong grip.
“I’m Helen Linton, Joe’s mom, and I’m so delighted to meet you. We don’t get many famous people in these parts. This is a thrill. A real thrill,” she enthused, still shaking my hand.
I gently extricated myself, quelling the urge to flex my fingers. I thought about downplaying my celebrity, but I didn’t want to burst her bubble and she seemed genuinely happy to meet me. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Oh, wow. Just wow. I saw that movie they did on the Netflix.”
“Just Netflix, Ma. Not the Netflix,” Joe corrected, squeezing her to his side.
She rolled her eyes. “The one with that creepy stalker who lured random strangers into his car…telling them he couldn’t find his puppy. Oldest trick in the dang book, but the way you wrote those words was just…goose-bump worthy, ya know?”
“Thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”
“What are you working on now? Can I ask that question? Probably not, huh? I bet it’s top secret,” she said, pursing her pink-stained lips. “I love that you’re writing here. It’s a good place and mostly quiet too.”
“Until the handyman’s mom bangs on the damn door in the middle of the afternoon,” Joe chided.
She shook her head in mock consternation. “Don’t mind this one. He’s all bark, no bite.”
I snickered, charmed by their playful mother-son banter. They clearly adored one another, I mused as Helen slinked her arm around her son’s waist.
“Don’t tell him that, Ma. I’ve got a reputation.”
“As a smart aleck,” she countered, squeezing him before stepping aside. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I won’t make a habit of stopping by out of the blue, but I shamelessly wanted to meet you and…I was worried about this guy. You haven’t been checking your voice mails, Joseph. I’ve been trying to remind you about bingo. I picked up your Santa suit from the dry cleaner in Elmwood. You’re set for the party next Saturday.”