Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Irony is at its finest, though, since she’s actually the person I want to see most. It’s just that I turn into a flaming fucking mess every time I come into contact with her, and that shit’s not me. Ty Winslow doesn’t let people mind-meld him. If anything, he does the mind-melding.
But Rachel Rose has some kind of power I’ve never encountered before. Something that makes me crazy. Something that makes thirty-nine years of learning to function seem obsolete.
In addition to that, I didn’t do anything with the test questions yet. In fact, I didn’t even remember them until now.
Me: Right. I can email them over later tonight. I’d do it now, but I have to head out for a baby shower soon.
Her response comes in a minute later.
Rachel: Let’s be honest, did you actually make any changes? Because if not, I can do one last proof and then just get the test ready.
How the hell does she know that?
Me: What makes you say that?
Rachel: Because you haven’t made any changes on the last two tests I’ve prepared.
Me: Haha. Okay. Wow, Sherlock Holmes. I guess I’m busted. Go ahead and use the questions you have.
Rachel: LOL. I’m just trying to make this easier on you.
Me: No, you’re right. You write good questions, so I’ve been doing fuck all to them since you started.
Rachel: Well, thanks. I try. You make it pretty easy to pick them with the way you lecture.
Are we…having a compliment war right now? Because it sure as hell feels like it. You’re also doing a really good—more like, terrible—job of avoiding her, dude. Top-notch. Good enough to join the CIA.
I tell my inner voice to take a hike. I mean, she was texting about work, and it’s not exactly like I can cut her off completely. She’s my TA.
Which is paradoxically also a good explanation for why I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to whack off to thoughts of your TA on a nightly basis, and if you are, you should ask the department head for a change.
Of course, the department head is her father, and I promised I’d take Rachel on as a specific favor to him, so I guess I’m in a real pickle.
Life is really wild right now, honestly.
Rachel: Also, my mind just processed that you said you’re going to a baby shower, and that is an incredibly hard thing for me to picture.
I snort. Yeah. Tell me about it.
Me: It’s for my brother Flynn. His wife Daisy is pregnant with twin boys.
Rachel: Twins? That’s a lot of babies.
I chuckle.
Me: Lol. Yeah. It is.
Rachel: Well, have fun partying it up today.
Me: Ha. Yeah. It’s about to get real wild.
Rachel: Okay, I’m too curious not to ask. What kind of gift does a single guy bring to a baby shower?
What? A gift? Isn’t my presence gift enough?
Me: Why would I bring a gift?
Rachel: Because that’s what you do at baby showers. You bring the mom gifts.
Me: For real?
Rachel: OMG. LOL. You are such a guy.
Is she telling the truth? I’m supposed to bring a fucking gift?
Me: Seriously, Rachel? What kinds of gifts are you talking about here?
Rachel: Baby kinds of gifts. Diapers. Onesies. Bottles. She should have a registry.
Me: A registry???
Rachel: Oh my God. Forget the registry. Just go get some baby stuff. Two onesies. Pack of diapers. Some baby wipes. It’s really that simple.
Me: What the fuck’s a onesie?
Rachel: LOL. This just keeps getting better and better.
Me: For you, maybe. For me? It’s getting worse and worse. Seriously, Rachel, what’s a onesie?
Obviously, when it comes to babies, I don’t know shit. My niece Lexi could cogitate before she was a year old, so she basically skipped the infant thing altogether. Plus, I wasn’t exactly the first person in line when Winnie was looking to leave her in someone’s care. Remy and Flynn have always been a touch more responsible than me.
Rachel: Baby clothes. If you go to any store that has baby clothes and find the nearest woman and ask her to show you the onesies, you’ll find them.
I chuckle to myself, but then I realize I’m still texting with her like we’re old pals. Like there is nothing in the world to be concerned about. Just…texting it up like two peas in a sexual-tension-filled pod that I’m trying to pretend doesn’t exist.
And then I also check the time and see that I have exactly two hours to find a damn gift and get to Daisy’s shower.
Overwhelmed, I immediately tuck my phone back into my pocket, walk down the hall to my kitchen, grab my wallet and shit from the counter, and head right out the door.
I’m not bothering with driving today because parking in the city is a pain in the ass and my head’s not ready to dance with raging taxi drivers. Surely I can find a shop in my neighborhood that sells baby shit and take the subway to Daisy’s shower.