Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Lemme stop you right there.” That was it. I’d lost my goddamn patience. This was ridiculous. “We. Don’t. Have. A. Fucking. Choice. Assembling scaffolding ain’t what’s causing all the noise around here, and construction tends to be loud. It has fuck-all to do with compassion, you piece of shit.”
He didn’t back down for a second. “Are you telling me you can’t assemble those structures without yelling motherfucker all the time? We’re not fucking stupid. We understand construction is loud, but when you’re standing ten inches outside of a psychologist’s office window, slinging every curse word imaginable, the last issue we have is with everyone drilling in the walls.”
Thank fuck he stormed away once he got all that out, because I didn’t have a good comeback.
Goddammit.
If his boss got off work at five PM, the yuppie should work similar hours, right?
I checked my watch and then squinted up at the building.
Five minutes past five.
A breath gusted out of me, and I ran a hand through my hair.
This was stupid. I should just head home, get out of my work clothes, and take a long shower.
And yet…I couldn’t shake the urge to smooth things over with the yuppie. In all the chaos earlier, and the damn heat, I’d misinterpreted what Garcia had said. Now I could recall his saying that several people had complained about the noise, and I’d applied it all to this suit guy. But all he’d mentioned was my creative use of words. He hadn’t technically bitched about the noise.
Hold up, is that him?
I held up a hand to shield my eyes from the late-afternoon sun, and I zeroed in on the guy coming out from the building.
It was him. He had put on his messenger bag, and he had a bike helmet in one hand.
Totally fit my impression of him. Yuppie on a bicycle.
I cleared my throat and trailed closer as he aimed for the row of bikes next to the stairs.
“Oi. Glasses.” I figured it was a better nickname than Yuppie.
Hey, it worked.
He threw a frown over his shoulder.
I gestured at myself. “The paste-eater from earlier.”
The frown faded, but he definitely nailed the standoffish vibe. “Now I remember.”
Okay, he had the biting, dry sense of humor down.
“I cut the goddammits and motherfuckers to a minimum after our productive chat,” I offered.
He unlocked his bike and stuffed the chain into his messenger bag. “My boss mentioned an improvement.” He side-eyed me. “Did you just get off work?”
“Half an hour ago,” I replied. “It’s possible I felt bad for how I acted earlier, so I decided to see if you were on your way out too.”
“I am. After a lovely day here, I’m looking forward to my evening shift at a hotel in Center City,” he drawled.
Oh damn. “That blows. I’m sorry about today, man. I won’t piss you off tomorrow, I promise.”
“Are you sure? You seem to have a knack for it.” He put on his helmet. Then he sighed and pulled out his bike. “Maybe I could’ve handled things better too.”
I smiled. “Water under the bridge.”
Except, now I kinda wanted this little meeting to run longer. He really was hot, and considering he’d checked me out before, it didn’t seem unlikely he was gay. A guy had to give it a go, didn’t he? My weekend was open.
“So, uh…do you have enough time to get something to eat before work?” I asked. “There’s a place down the street. They water down anything alcoholic, but their chips and guacamole are out of this world.”
He knitted his brows together. “You wanna spend happy hour with me?”
I’d prefer a date, but we could call it happy hour between two strangers.
“Of course.” I shrugged. “I obviously want a moment to explain myself. I didn’t fucking eat paste as a kid. I ate crayons.”
Fuck yeah, he actually smiled. “Okay. Happy hour sounds good.”
Fucking A.
Yeah, I definitely wanted this to be a date.
We had the perfect setting for it too. Shitty old cantina, graffiti all over, sticky floors, small booths with torn padding, another patron shooting pool and smoking like a chimney, dimmed lighting, ice-cold sodas, the best app platter with chips, salsa, guacamole, queso, lettuce, and taquitos, and…a stereo blaring Phil Collins’s “A Groovy Kind of Love.” Romantically sticky and corny and gross and delicious. What more could a guy need?
Well, him. I sure as fuck wanted a round in the sack with him.
His name was Nathan. He was twenty-three years old and working three jobs in the summer to pay for college. He was on a partial scholarship and headed for a master’s degree in clinical psychology. One day, he was going to be like his current boss, specializing in trauma care. He was currently assisting said boss with patients.
He was originally from Phoenix, so he didn’t have any family out here.