Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I knew better than to make a move so soon. I should’ve kept the conversation going. Feigned interest in getting to know more about her. But the Russian liquor coursing through my veins has evidently thrown me off my game and my impatience got the best of me.
My effervescent, out-of-reach bubbly blonde disappears into the ladies’ room.
I order water and text my driver.
I refuse to sit here wallowing in rejection when I’ve got dozens of women in my phone who would Uber to my place in a heartbeat if I said the word.
I’m half-finished with my water by the time she comes back. Clearing her throat, she takes a seat and tosses back the rest of her drink. We sit in silence over the longest two minutes of my life before she turns to me.
“You haven’t even asked my name,” she says.
“What?”
“You’ve been flirting with me all night, buying me drinks. You put your hand on my knee. And you’ve yet to ask my name.”
“I don’t need to.”
Her eyes catch on mine and she studies me. “Ah. So you already know it.”
I smirk. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I should go.” She slides off her seat. “Thanks for the drinks.”
My phone lights with a text from my driver.
He’s almost here.
I rise, slip my phone into my pocket, swipe my jacket, toss some cash on the counter, and head outside first.
God forbid she thinks I’m following her.
I’ve never chased after a woman in my life. I’m not about to start now.
I stand beneath a black awning, my breath turning to milky January clouds under a clear blue-black sky.
Sliding my phone out, I decide to check my work email while I wait for my ride. With it being a Saturday, I’m not met with anything urgent, and I’m about to close out of the app when I spot a reply email from Anonymous Stranger.
My thumb hovers above the delete button for half of a second before I decide to see what this audacious person has to say this time. Because I’ve never believed in letting anyone get the last word (and because I’m cheaply entertained by these exchanges), I fully intend to respond the next chance I get.
I’m three sentences deep when I realize this woman is giving me a novel’s worth of some sob story, likely an attempt to justify her decision to insert herself into my family’s tragedy.
She was a foster child …
She never met her father …
Her adoptive mother died …
Her fiancé died …
A bona fide country music song—all that’s missing is a runaway Blue Heeler and a broken-down Chevy on the side of the road.
There’s no fucking way any of this is true—and yet I continue reading anyway, waiting for the part where this madcap is about to ask me for money. It’s when I get toward the end that the amused smirk on my face fades and everything around me turns black.
The woman in the bar, the woman who eye-fucked me all night and then suddenly and inexplicably lost all interest … is none other than Anonymous Stranger.
And she fucking knew the entire time.
She thinks I’m cruel?
She hasn’t seen anything yet.
A moment later, the door swings open and Astaire joins me, buttoning her ivory pea coat and slipping her delicate hands into skin-tight leather gloves the color of baby’s breath. The faintest waft of her sweet perfume cuts through the cool night air as a car coasts by, tail lights reflecting against wet winter pavement until it vanishes over the hill.
Our eyes lock.
She begins to say something, but I silence her with a kiss … soft and slow, the kind that makes her melt against me, exhaling her sweet breath as my fingers trace the side of her cheek, her back against the brick façade of Ophelia’s.
She doesn’t resist.
In fact, her lips part to accept my tongue, gifting me the subtle tang of sugared citrus and champagne with a hint of pomegranate lip balm.
She’s every bit as sweet as I expected.
As if on cue, my driver pulls up, parking next to the curb.
I end the kiss, brushing the pad of my thumb against her lower lip. My thousand-yard stare bores into her and I step away.
“That’s my ride.” I nod toward the idling SUV.
“I’m not going home with you.”
“That wasn’t an invitation.” There’s a chill in my voice that makes her expression fade.
With that, I disappear inside the satisfying warmth of my backseat and leave her on the sidewalk, in the brutal January cold.
13
Astaire
“Astaire, there you are. Was hoping I’d catch you before the bell.” Mrs. Angelino, who teaches third grade down the hall, ambles into my classroom Monday morning, apple-shaped coffee mug in hand. “What happened last week? With Garrett? He said you never showed?”
I’d been meaning to catch up with her, to explain what happened, but she was out sick Friday, and I didn’t want to bother her at home over the weekend.