Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
She comes around to stand so close to me that I can feel the heat of her body. Without me asking, she takes the cotton shirt and stretches to the side, carefully looping my broken arm through the short sleeve. I whisper, “Thank you.”
She drags the hem down over my abs, and without looking up, she whispers, “You’re welcome.” A glimmer of a smile appears when her eyes find mine again. “I couldn’t leave you all alone.” She leaves too quickly to appreciate the proximity.
“Well, you could have, but you chose to stay.” Stationed on the other side of the island from her, I eye the stovetop and the small stack of pancakes on a plate next to it. “I thought you’d be long gone by now. Not making pancakes for a man you supposedly hate.”
With an apron I didn’t know I owned, wrapped around the front of her, and a spatula held tight in her hand, she rests her hands on the counter between us. “Let’s get two things straight, Warner.” I settle onto a barstool, thinking this might take a while. “One. I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are we separating?”
“Because I find you intolerable. That’s not hatred. That's a lack of patience for your BS.” Eyeing the shirt wrapped around half my body, she adds, “Anymore.”
It’s impressive how she talks like she actually knows me. “I have my memory,” I say, testing to see her reaction.
Aside from her righting herself, the reaction is minimal. A few rapid blinks are followed by panic widening the darker pupils of her blue eyes. She licks her lips and then tugs the bottom one under her teeth to gnaw before releasing. “Everything?” Shit, I was only teasing, but her reaction has me wondering if she is responsible for my accident.
“Everything.”
Turning around, she hides her face, cutting me off from studying and seeing her emotions playing out. When she drops her head down, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
The song changes, and the flitting tune doesn’t fit the mood. I get up and reach over the counter to stop it on the screen of her phone. Leaning my left hand on the counter, I ask, “Why are you sorry, Delaney?”
“For lying to you.” I knew we weren’t married. My gut told me what my mind can’t seem to remember. She spins back and says, “I still want to be with you, Warner.” Planting her hands next to mine, she leans over the counter so close that I can smell that she’s already dipped into the maple syrup. I start to wonder if her lips would taste as sweet as her breath. “I should have never moved out.”
I’m snapped out of that urge and back into this mess. “What do you mean?”
Her hands cover mine, and she replies, “I should have stayed and fought harder for us.”
Shit . . .
Is this real? Are we?
The doorbell chimes with our eyes still connected. “Expecting company?” she asks, returning her attention to the pancakes, and only briefly glancing back at me. “I can make more.”
I push off the counter, but before I leave, I ask, “What was number two?”
She laughs. “Who said these pancakes were for you?”
It’s best if I walk away before saying something I regret, like letting her still be here. While walking to answer the door, the chime goes off once more, but I ask, “Do you happen to know why my closet looks like it does? I swear it was in perfect order the last time I used it.”
I stop to wait for her response before rounding the corner toward the door. She looks at me square in the eyes without so much as blinking, and replies, “I was in a hurry to get my clothes when I left yesterday.”
She’s good, really fucking good.
Picking up my pace, I reach the door and look through the peephole. I open the door once I see the doorman standing on the other side. “Hi Baker, how are you?”
“Good, Mr. Landers.” Eyeing me, he asks, “You okay?” He’s older, closer to my dad’s age when he died, and has worked here longer than I’ve been a resident. He’s the happiest guy in Manhattan. Never has a bad word to say about anyone or the day. It’s always a good day when I see Keith Baker in the lobby. He keeps things light when the rest of the world is heavy.
“I was hit by a car, so I can honestly say that I’ve been better.”
“Sorry to hear that. A broken arm isn’t too bad if you’ve been run over.” Always looking on the sunny side, he adds, “You’re here. So you must have more work to do here on earth.”
“Work is the last thing I want more of.”
He chuckles, moving off to the side of the door, angling toward the elevator. “It’s probably not your job that needs the attention. He hands me a box. “Lose your phone?”