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)
He’s really going to town with this whole date thing. Pulling out all the stops. Behaving as a perfect gentleman. This isn’t the man I’ve come to know.
It’s … flattering.
Unnerving, too, but in a good way.
“Car’s waiting downstairs.” He checks his watch. “We should probably head out if we want to make our reservations.”
“Of course.” I swipe my clutch off the counter—a clearance rack purchase I managed to find in the back of my closet last night, and we make our way to the hall. I swear his fingertips brush the small of my back as I lock up, though it could easily be my nerves.
It’s the strangest thing being nervous about this date. Most people get nervous when they want to impress someone, when they hope things go well so there’ll be a second date and a third. They get nervous when they like someone and wish more than anything for that feeling to be mutual.
None of those things apply and yet here I am, flushed and praying he doesn’t notice how shallow my breaths are as we take the elevator to the main floor.
The doors ding and part, depositing us in the makeshift lobby, which is nothing more than a five-by-ten space filled with mailboxes and a couple of bulletin boards—nothing like the Worthington Heights penthouse he calls home.
Bennett gets the main door, leading the way to an idling SUV where a uniformed man waits, hands folded at his hips.
“Astaire, this is my driver, George,” he says. “George, this is Astaire Carraro.”
I can’t help but wonder if he gives the first and last names of all of his dates to his driver.
I slide across the backseat, the leather warm and butter-soft against the backs of my thighs. The city is beautiful this time of night, all lit up and full of life, filled with Friday night livewire energy.
He slides in beside me, our thighs touching by the time we pull away.
“Apologies, Astaire, I need to tend to a few personal emails.” Bennett retrieves his phone. The screen lights, showcasing the concerned lines sprawling across his forehead. “Once we arrive, I assure you you’ll have my full attention.”
I nod. “Do what you need to do.”
Turning to take in the traffic symphony of a drive, I decide to quell my nerves, live in the moment, and focus on all the questions I’m going to ask him later.
I’m dying to know what makes Bennett Schoenbach tick.
And tonight, I’m going to find out.
* * *
The menu is prix fixe and I can’t begin to pronounce the name of this place, but the Spanish guitarist making his rounds is lovely. We’re surrounded mostly by couples. Clinking wine glasses. Soft pockets of laughter. The sleepy glimmer of candlelight. Sweeping views of the pier below. A starry sky prettier than any painting I’ve seen.
Love is in the air.
And then there’s us.
It’s too dark to see much more than our outlines and the glints in our eyes as a slow flame flickers between us. Red wine intoxicates my veins, ready to loosen my lips without warning.
“Why did you check up on me?” I wait until we’re settled and our orders have been placed before diving into the first burning question of the evening.
“That came out of nowhere.” He smirks into his wine glass.
“You told me you had better things to do with your time, so it just seemed odd that you would take the time to look into me.”
“I didn’t take the time. I hired someone to take the time. Big difference. My time was still spent doing better things.” Bennett winks. “But to answer your question … I checked into you because I was curious. And because I can. Any other pressing questions?”
“Who was Larissa?”
His dark brows lift and his full mouth presses flat. “She was my sister. My adopted sister.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Bennett nods.
I don’t tell him I assumed she was his wife. And I sure as heck won’t be telling him I conjured up this beautiful love story between them.
“Were you close?” I run my hand along the linen napkin in my lap.
“Not particularly, no.” He takes a drink, looks away, looks back.
“You planned her memorial though,” I say.
“Someone had to.”
“Do you have any other siblings?” I can’t help myself. With each answer he gives, my mind conjures up a dozen additional questions.
“A brother. Two years older. And before you ask, no, we’re not close.” He takes another drink. “My father died five years ago. My mother lives around here. You’ll often find her brunching or shopping when she’s not stirring pots and manufacturing as much drama as humanly possible.”
I unpack these details, try to organize them and put them in little boxes to make sense of all of this. He isn’t close with his family. There are rifts and falling outs. I’d ask why, but I’d be grossly overstepping his boundaries.