Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“So she’s faking it?” he asks, glancing at me, then down to watch me taking the nail polish off my feet.
“I’m not sure what she feels is even conscious. But, you’re right, I don’t think Bethanny ever really liked Jill.”
“Give me that,” he says, reaching for my nail polish remover and cotton pads.
Is he mad that I’m using this in bed? Maybe I should have done it in the bathroom. This is a really fancy place he has here. These sheets are probably hand woven by Portuguese widows in a remote village that hasn’t changed since the days of the Black Death.
I hand him what he’s asking for, but instead of screwing on the lid tightly and disposing of the pads, he tips more of the remover onto a fresh pad, circles his strong hand around my ankle and pulls my leg toward him.
I half squeal at his unexpected takeover.
Then, keeping his eye on the screen, he proceeds to remove my toenail polish for me. His hands work steadily and carefully, like he’s really concentrating on what he’s doing. His gaze flits between my toes and the TV screen, like he’s equally invested in both. It’s annoyingly adorable.
I ignore the swoop in my stomach and the warmth in his hands that seem to light me on fire every time he touches me. This is all part of his attempt to get me to fall in love with him, right? I have to be strong and see it as manipulation rather than…communion or intimacy. This guy is friends with everyone, and he knows how to get people to like him, by his own admission.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on the television.
He chuckles at something Ramona says. “She’s brutal,” he says. “She can’t know how she’s landing.”
“That’s the beauty of Ramona. Complete lack of self-awareness is key to scoring Housewife gold.”
He laughs, and a sprig of pride glows in my chest at my ability to amuse him.
“Thanks,” I say, when he’s finished taking the polish off my toes. “Want a face mask?” I stand and take the used cotton pads and remover from him.
“Sure,” he says on a sigh.
“Do you feel more relaxed?” I ask from the bathroom, as the first episode of the show finishes. I grab the two sheet masks I brought with me and head back into the bedroom.
“More relaxed than what?”
“Than you would have been if you’d done what you normally do on a Sunday?”
“I feel relaxed with you,” he says.
I roll my eyes, because I know he’s just trying to say whatever it takes to make me like him.
“It doesn’t make sense, but it is in fact true that I feel relaxed with you.”
“I could be offended that you think it doesn’t make sense!” I say, slightly offended.
“Why?” he says. “You’re here because you want something from me. So why would I be relaxed in that situation? Most of the people in my day to day want something from me. And that’s good. That’s how I designed it, but it’s also…”
“Draining,” I finish his sentence for him. I feel bad that I’m here invading his private space, and he should be getting a chance to decompress. Again, I don’t know why I agreed to this stupid idea.
I should leave. This entire situation is embarrassing. If he doesn’t want to help me, he should just be allowed to say no without having a woman live with him for a week. “I feel bad,” I say. “I’ll figure out the Boston thing. I should go.”
He sits up and shakes his head. “No! I wasn’t saying I was uncomfortable. I’m just surprised I feel so relaxed.”
“I know, but honestly, what are we doing?”
“We’re trying to prove each other wrong,” he says with a smile. “Because we’re hardheaded and stubborn.”
I smile. “That I can agree with you on.”
“If you leave, I’m going to be stuck with a cupboard full of snacks no one’s going to eat.”
“Oh, because your body is a temple. I forgot.”
“I seem to remember you worshipping it last Saturday.”
I throw a pillow at him so he doesn’t catch me blushing. “You’re the worst,” I say in faux indignation.
“Maybe, but I have ice-cream. You want some?”
There’s something about this guy that’s completely disarming. Or maybe it’s the sugar.
The episode ends and he grabs the remote control. “What about a movie next?” he suggests. “You know, just to mix up our bed-rotting viewing.”
“Hmmm. Well, a movie isn’t against the rules of bed rotting. But what? There’s almost too much choice now.”
“Something I won’t have seen.”
“Have you ever seen any movie?” I ask. “Aren’t you always out networking or at the gym?”
“Well, now I’m here, bed rotting with you. Pick a movie.”
“I’m thinking a classic,” I say, narrowing my eyes and trying to think of something that’s appropriate for bed rotting. “I’m thinking a rom-com.” I grin at him as I realize what I’m going to choose. “Sleepless in Seattle. Have you seen it?”