Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“No.” He’d dipped his head, and his mouth was on my neck now. He was kissing my neck. “I still think about it.”
“Me too.” I tried to swallow, but the touch of his lips on my throat seemed to have disabled the mechanism.
“Maybe we need a do-over.” He left a trail of searing-hot kisses on my skin, clavicle to jaw. “We could give it a better ending.”
“Dash,” I whispered. Before I could say another word, his mouth was on mine. Warm and firm and salty from the French fries. His lips opened, and his tongue stole into my mouth. My heart thumped hard enough for him to feel it, like it wanted to escape my body and jump into his before I could snatch it back again. Was this really happening? I arched my back and struggled to free my hands so I could touch him, make sure he was real.
But he must have thought I was struggling to push him away, because he sprang back and popped to his feet as if someone had yanked him off me. “Sorry. Jesus. Did I hurt your hand?”
“No.” I sat up, my pulse a jackhammer in my head, my body yearning for his weight again.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I tried to smile. An invitation. “I’m fine.”
He looked away and ran a hand over his hair. “My brothers.”
“Your brothers?” I frowned. “What about them?”
“They basically told me to behave around you.”
“They did?”
He laughed, but it sounded forced. “Yeah. They don’t trust me with you. Apparently for good reason.”
“Dash, that’s ridiculous.”
“Anyway, I should get going.” He grabbed his empty plate and beer bottle from the nearby tray table and made a beeline for the kitchen.
I sat there for a minute in the dark, seeing the kitchen light come on, hearing the faucet run. Damn you, Buckley brothers. I’m not a kid.
Sixteen-year-old me held up a hand. Please. This is no one’s fault but yours. You could have at least changed out of your sweatpants after painting.
Disappointed, I grabbed my dishes and headed for the kitchen.
Dash was at the sink. “I’ll load the dishwasher for you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it later. But let me give you some braised short ribs to take home for your dad.”
“Okay.” Dash backed off while I worked, standing all the way across the room. “He was looking forward to his chicken pot pie tonight. Good thing you sent two helpings because Xander ate one of them this afternoon.”
“Did he like it?” I kept my face turned away from him so he couldn’t see how flushed I was. How could he act so normal? I felt like I’d just been through an earthquake, like the ground was still shaky beneath my feet.
“He inhaled the entire thing in about three minutes, so I’d say yes.”
“Good.” After I’d pressed the lid onto the container, I set it on the table and then took our empty beer bottles out to the recycling bin on my back porch. When I returned to the kitchen, he was zipping up his hoodie.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said.
Trying not to feel like I’d just been rejected a second time, I stayed about five feet from him. “You’re welcome. Thanks for helping me paint the guest room—and for having my car fixed. I wish you’d let me pay you back.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want your money.”
I nearly asked him what he did want. Instead, I grabbed his SUV key fob from my purse and held it out. “This is yours.”
“Thanks.” He took it from me and toyed with it. “I promised Austin’s kids I’d take them out for pizza tomorrow night.”
“Sounds like fun.” I wrapped my arms around myself.
“You could come along if you want.”
“That’s okay. You enjoy a night out with family.”
“Okay.” This time, he didn’t say I was family too. “Then I guess I’ll see you around.”
The silence around us was thick and cold as chilled butter.
“Ari, I’m sorry again about—about what I did.”
“Don’t be.”
“I . . .” He struggled for words. “I like being friends with you.”
“I like being friends with you too.”
“So are we good?”
I forced a close-lipped smile. “We’re good.”
He was out of the house before I could say another word.
Two days went by.
We didn’t talk at all on Thursday, even though I thought of him every other minute and spent the evening alone, wishing I’d taken him up on his invitation to have pizza with Austin’s family. Instead, I baked an apple pie—always the most popular dessert at Moe’s—and tried to think of ways I could deconstruct it or play with the theme. A waffle? Some kind of crumble? Apple pie bread pudding?
But as I tasted it, trying to let the flavors inspire me, all I could think about was the taste of Dash’s kiss.
On Friday, I left Moe’s a little early and got my stitches out, and even though I still had a bandage on my finger, it was a relief to be able to use my hand a little more. As I got ready for my shift at the pub, I wondered if he’d stop in tonight.