Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
But this isn’t perfectly scripted plot twist binge bait.
It’s reality.
And in reality?
Men rarely pursue me for more than a peek at my exclusive patient list.
“Tonight’s dessert specials are affogato al caffè,” he announces, his unexpected Italian accent intoxicatingly delectable, “and espresso chocolate semifreddo.” Hazel eyes I’m ready to give up more than just my last name for casually cut over to my brown. “You know what those are?”
I wordlessly shake my head.
“Affogato al caffè is gonna be a scoop of vanilla gelato topped with espresso while espresso chocolate semifreddo is kinda like ice cream too but has more a mousse texture with the espresso mixed into it.” Thayne presents another warm, inviting smile prior to inquiring, “Which one are ya thinkin’?”
“Either,” is attached to an innocent shoulder shrug. “I’m easy.”
An almost contemplative hum is accompanied by a slow nod. “Then pick.”
“You pick.”
“No,” he resumes his upright position, arm removing itself from where I was comfortable with it nestled, “you pick, Gillian.”
“But-”
“You say that ‘you’re easy’ so that you don’t have to actually decide anything. Now, whether that’s fear of pickin’ ‘wrong’ or bein’ ‘bothersome’ or ‘unliked’, doesn’t matter to me.” His large palms rest together in his lap. “What matters to me…is your voice. That you get a chance to be heard. That you get a chance to be seen. That you see that you matter in anything and everything, even if it’s jus’ dessert.”
Discomfort over the notion pushes me to bite back, “Why don’t your wants matter?”
“They do,” my date rebuts without reluctance. “And I always speak on ‘em. I always act on ‘em.” Mirth takes prevalence in his tone. “Sometimes irresponsibly…”
Intrigue slightly tilts my face, silently insisting on details.
“Gettin’ ‘Death Before Decaf’ tatted on my back may have been more responsible than the goalie stick made out of coffee beans I got tatted on my foot, but neither were completely thought all the way through unlike the music notes on my arms, which represent my family since music has always kept us together no matter how far apart, we’ve been.”
Melting in place mindlessly occurs.
Cavitiesandcrowns, how does he basically turn me into a human milkshake?
And just to be clear, I don’t want all the boys to come to my yard.
Just him.
Only him.
Part of me wants to make that song reference out loud knowing there’s a high probability he’ll get it.
Appreciate it.
Reward me.
And I can’t explain it but…I wanna be rewarded.
That sounds much more enjoyable than being punished.
“Both,” bravely propels its way past my lips, “and I would like you to put your arm back around me, Jukes.”
Thayne instantly repositions it to where it was, although this time it actually dangles across my shoulder rather than the furniture. “Both it is.” The sudden lengthening of my spine swiftly becomes temporary thanks to his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. “You’re extra fuckin’ sexy when you tell me what you want like that, Gillybean…”
Air not only seems to abandon my lungs, but the entire building.
A lot like my ability to speak.
And think.
And blink because apparently being paralyzed by salaciousness is a thing that can actually happen to a person when it’s not scripted to.
Post a cool down session – graciously granted by our coffee labeled waitress providing ice cold glasses of water upon her return – Thayne does the ordering and polite dismissing that leaves us alone yet again.
Between the dim lighting and spaced-out seating arrangement, there’s certainly an air of romance.
One that easily keeps us pressed tightly together.
Exchanging looks and bashful lip bites.
Leaning in towards one another rather than raising our voices, not wasting the opportunity for our mouths to gravitate closer during our discussions on lyrics and musicians and instruments.
Despite being in a room with at least forty other people – forty other people talking and laughing and singing loudly – it somehow feels as though it’s just us.
Like no matter where we are or where we’ll be, it’ll always be just us.
Ohforcryingoutloud…I’m turning into a fucking Mariah Carey ballad.
Dessert is smoothly slid onto our table at the same time Thayne informs, “I’m really glad it’s Queens of the Diva Age tonight.” He casually removes his arm in order to better face me. “They cover a wider variety than like Corretta Clyn or Felton Don or Noiseplanting – who I’ll admit does jam a top cheddar kazoo.”
Disbelief has me instantly leaning forward. “I’m sorry, did you say…kazoo?”
“I did.”
“Like a…a…” my clutch gets close to my lips to assist in my loud, odd noise, pantomiming, “kazoo?!”
“No, like a regular kazoo,” he teasingly taunts prompting me to playfully hit him with my bag, which he effortlessly captures. “You gotta be faster than that to score on me, Gillybean.” Devilish hunger swiftly swaps places with his impishness. “Unless I’m out of my net…”
The sexual implication fully flushes my face and neck, an action I try to ignore by pointing out the mistake of our waitress, “She um…only…delivered…one spoon.”