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)
Stomach twisting, I realize this could be a number of people … but in my heart of hearts, I have a feeling I know exactly who it is.
And he’ll just have to wait.
18
Bennett
“About damn time,” I answer when she calls me at a quarter past six Friday night. I mark my page in Plato’s Republic and rest it beside my whiskey.
“Bennett?” Astaire’s voice is a confused brand of sugar-sweet on the other end. “I thought that was you …”
“I’m going to text you my address. Come over at eight.” Texting someone to have them call you so you can tell them you’re going to text them seems infuriatingly convoluted—but I wanted to make sure we were on the same page, wanted her to know my invitation is serious, and I wanted to guarantee my invite wouldn’t be ignored.
And maybe I wanted to hear her voice.
“I have plans.” She pauses, followed by a short exhalation.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t understand what this is about.”
“You will.” I rotate my tumbler on the coaster and take a sip, staring into the fiery inferno that is my limestone-wrapped fireplace. “When you get here.”
With that, I hang up. I’m certain her curiosity is unbearable after a week of radio silence, but I had my reasons—reasons I’ll be sure to share with her when she comes.
Because she is coming.
* * *
“Are you going to tell me why you invited me over?” Astaire stands in my doorway, a thin veil of floral-and-musk perfume emanating off her cloud-colored jacket as she grips her purse strap.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re adorable when you’re trying to be serious? Come in.” I move out of the way and watch as she steps into my foyer, the expansive space almost swallowing her whole as her ballerina flats pad soft against the shiny travertine tile.
Turning to me, she tilts her head. My gaze lands on her full mouth, which is barely shiny enough to tell me she slicked on a coat of lip balm before she came here.
This woman is a beautiful mess of contradictions—all of which I intend to use in my favor tonight.
“You said you didn’t want to be just a couple of strangers arguing on the Internet.” I take her jacket. “So I thought we should argue in person.”
“Seriously? You invited me to your place so we could … argue … in person?”
“Amongst other things.” I place her jacket in my coat closet but she retains her purse as if it’s her lifeline, as if I’m a crazed serial killer and she’s prepared to whip out a can of expired mace she’s been carrying around for years. “May I offer you a drink?”
I point down the hall and head for the bar.
She follows, keeping a careful distance.
“I’m afraid I don’t have champagne so I won’t be able to make those cocktails you were so smitten with the other weekend.” I peruse my collection of imported hard liquors. “But I’ve got just about anything else your little heart desires.”
“Water would be great. Thank you.”
I turn to her. “Don’t insult me, Astaire. I’ve invited you into my home and I’ve offered to make you a drink, and I don’t do that for just anyone.”
“I won’t be staying long. I just came by because I thought you needed … something.”
Why, yes. I do need something …
I fix myself a whiskey sour, stirring with my finger before licking the excess. And then I grab her a bottle of Evian from the bar fridge under the counter. She accepts the water but leaves it capped, and then she follows me into the living room where she takes a seat on the cognac Chesterfield across from the fireplace.
“I owe you an apology,” I say.
Her brows lift and she brushes a glossy blonde wave off her shoulder, sitting straighter, ears practically perked like a Welsh Corgi.
“I had someone do some digging,” I go on. “Your story checks out. All of it. And I’m sorry for your losses.”
Her nose scrunches. “And you couldn’t have emailed me this apology?”
“First of all, it’s proper etiquette. Second of all, I didn’t want the message to get lost in translation.” I take a sip to hide my smirk. I shouldn’t be laughing. My apology is sincere, but that deer-in-the-headlights look she’s giving me is an amusing distraction of endearing proportions.
Astaire stands, her bag still tucked under her arm.
“Thank you. I appreciate the hospitality and the apology, but I’ve got to go.”
“Hot date tonight?” I drink her in, from the top of her shiny, freshly-pressed waves to her tight black sweater and even tighter jeans, to the warmed scent of flowers wafting off her soft skin.
There’s a chance she dressed like this because she’s going out later.
There’s a bigger chance she dressed like this for me.
She doesn’t answer.
“Please tell me you’re not meeting up with Mushroom Dick again.” I laugh through my nose. “Because you can do a hell of a lot better than that.”