Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I exhale, relieved. My father is an introverted high school math teacher who rarely finds common ground with anyone, let alone complete strangers. This is good.
I’m starting to wonder if Lachlan just has that effect on people. He can’t be bothered to be anyone but himself, which takes the pressure off having to be a perfect conversationalist or making the best first impression.
That says a lot about the man.
Not to mention it puts him in a category light-years from Donovan.
“Rob, can you take our things up?” Mom asks. “I don’t know about you all, but your father and I are starving. Airport food is not for the faint of heart, so we tend to avoid it. We were thinking about going to that little Mexican restaurant you took us to last time, Anneliese?”
“Cabo Sol?” I ask.
“Yes, that one,” she says before turning to Lachlan. “We’d love for you to join us.”
“I don’t want to impose,” he says without hesitation.
“Nonsense.” Mom waves her hand in front of her face. “You’re coming with us. Anneliese tells us you’ve been tremendously helpful with renovations. At least let us feed you.”
“She’s really bad at taking no for an answer, so you might as well plan on joining us,” I tell him, speaking under my breath.
Ten minutes later, we’re riding in the back of my parents’ rented Kia sedan, en route to Cabo Sol, listening to my father tell stories from his time abroad.
I catch Lachlan’s gaze for a second and give him a friendly wink, then shoot him a quick text while my dad continues to wax poetic.
ME: You’re a good sport.
LACHLAN: They’re not that bad.
ME: No one wants to hang out with someone else’s parents on a Friday night . . . I’m sure you had other things you wanted to do.
LACHLAN: You know me—I’m all about living an extraordinary life.
ME: Fine. But I think it’s only fair that I should warn you to avoid the following topics at dinner tonight (or we’ll be there until close): capital gains taxes, core curriculum, and the pope.
LACHLAN: Triple noted.
We pull into the crowded parking lot of the only Mexican restaurant in town and put our name in for a table. Twenty minutes later, they seat us in a cozy booth. Lachlan slides in beside me, his arm brushing against mine and causing the tiniest thrill to run down my spine. That nostalgic warmth follows—the same one I felt the other night sitting outside with him. That feeling that has no business interjecting itself in my life right now; that feeling that can only be described as home.
I place my confusion aside and reach for a chip.
I’ve spent the past several months grieving. And alone.
My mind is playing cruel tricks on me . . .
For the hour that follows, we drink salted lime margaritas and stuff ourselves full of chips and salsa while the conversation flows . . . and all of it feels oddly natural.
When we get home, my mother insists we watch a ninety-minute documentary about three identical strangers. While I fully expect Lachlan to excuse himself for the evening, he stays.
He takes the chair on the other side of the room and settles in.
I cozy up on the end of the sofa, grab my phone, and send him another text.
ME: You don’t have to do this.
LACHLAN: I know. I want to.
ME: Why?
LACHLAN: Because I heard this doc is good and I’m a sucker for a real life plot twist.
He darkens his phone screen, places it facedown on the coffee table, and lifts his pointer finger to his lips before pointing to the TV screen.
My cheeks turn red hot, and I’m thankful for the darkness of the room because it hides the sheepish expression on my face. I can’t believe any part of me hoped he was sticking around for any other reason besides the fact that he actually wanted to watch the doc. If there’s anything I’ve learned about Lachlan so far, it’s that the man loves a compelling human-interest story.
Pulling in a cleansing breath, I get myself together and snap out of it.
I can’t entertain these kinds of thoughts anymore.
Crushing on someone I hardly know is the last thing I should be doing.
Didn’t I learn my lesson the first time?
TWENTY
LACHLAN
basorexia (n.) the overwhelming desire to kiss
“Oh.” Anneliese stands in the doorway of my room Friday evening wearing a matching pajama set covered in little pink hearts, her hair pulled back from her freshly washed face.
I think it’s safe to say she won’t be trying to seduce me tonight . . . not that I expected her to. But she’s dressed like a girl about to play truth or dare at a slumber party. If she’s trying to send a message, it’s been received: loud and clear.
“I said I’d take the air mattress,” she says when she spots me on the floor.