Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I start by tearing through my closet at tornado speed.
“Option one: black jeans and a blouse. Is that trying too hard or not enough?” I hold up the combo, turning to Alfred. He blinks twice, then sighs.
“Option two: the blue dress. Slight cleavage, but does this make my arms look like ham hocks?” I do a quick twirl. Alfred offers a low, warbling groan. Savage.
I try on both, then three more, each time spinning in the mirror and deciding to try another look. By the end, my room looks like a textile bomb went off, and I’m sweating so bad I need another shower.
Half an hour later, I’m back at square one. I end up picking out an entirely different outfit—this one a white sweater and navy skirt that hits just above the knee, looks professional but not boring, and hugs my curves perfectly. I decide I’ll pair it with my favorite boots, which are technically out of season, but they make my calves look killer and hide the Band-Aid on my shin.
While the curling iron heats up, I reorganize my makeup tray. Then I rearrange the perfume bottles by color, then by size, then alphabetically.
I spritz on my usual scent, then panic that he’ll think it’s too strong, so I try to dab it off with a towel, but now it’s mixed with coconut conditioner and I smell like a spa exploded. I check the time and see it’s six forty-one.
I have nineteen minutes to get my shit together, so I rush to get ready. I hop back in the shower, rinse off the overpowering scent, and start over. At six fifty-eight, I’m finishing up my makeup when I realize I haven’t fed Alfred or Oreo. They both give me the same look of deep betrayal.
As I scoop kibble into their bowls, I address Alfred again. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I’m not really sure when Dawson Hot got under my skin.
Alfred licks the air, not even aiming for the food, then flops down in front of the doorway, blocking my escape and huffs, unimpressed.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’m lying. I’ve been looking forward to my date with Dawson all week.” I’m pretty sure these crazy feelings for Dawson aren’t going away. “He grew on me,” I explain to my dog. “Kinda like a fungus.”
Alfred gives me a “dumb human” look before trotting over to check out his dinner.
At six fifty-nine, I do one last spin in the mirror while taking several deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves.
At exactly seven pm, my doorbell rings and I jolt, trip over Alfred, and catch myself on the hallway table. A picture frame wobbles but stays upright. I close my eyes and count to five before marching toward the door.
I glance out the security peephole, making sure it’s Dawson ringing my bell, then open the door with what I hope is a confident smile.
He’s wearing a pale blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show forearms carved by years of real work, and a pair of dark jeans that cling to his thick thighs. The shirt brings out his hypnotic blue eyes and his hair is a little messy, like he styled it then ran his hands through it several times. He has a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, and an honest-to-God brown paper bag in the other.
“Hi.” His dimples pop out as he smiles down at me.
“Hi,” I manage, wondering where my sudden shyness is coming from.
He hands over the flowers first. “These are for you.”
I stare at the bouquet—sunflowers, little white daisies, and some weird purple stuff that looks like it belongs in a fairy garden. I glance up, realizing I’m smiling so wide my face hurts. “These are perfect. Thank you.”
He shrugs, suddenly looking a little bashful. “You’re welcome.”
I’m trying to get my brain to function with my mouth when Alfred barrels into the entryway, nose up and tail wagging. Instead of ignoring him, Dawson crouches down immediately and lets Alfred snuffle his hand.
“This must Alfred.” His voice is soft enough to make my heart squeeze.
“He might pee on your shoes if you startle him,” I warn, as Alfred promptly sits on Dawson’s foot.
Dawson grins, then opens the paper bag and pulls out a plastic-wrapped packet. “I brought him treats. Soft ones, for old man teeth.” He opens it and holds one out, and Alfred—traitor—immediately abandons me for the bribe.
“Okay, you’re officially his favorite,” I say, feigning exasperation as I watch Alfred inhale a biscuit in one bite.
Dawson stands, dusts his hands, then gestures at the bag again. “There’s something for Oreo, too.”
The way he says it, totally matter-of-fact, tells me he actually paid attention to our texts. I open the bag and find a little felt mouse stuffed with catnip, which is more thoughtful than any gift I’ve gotten from a human in… maybe ever.