Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Victoria has always had a British slant to it, one of the reasons why I, and so many tourists, find the city so charming. Even today, a typical spring day with mild temps and a gloomy sky, there’s something quaint and refreshing about it. All the lawns are manicured with perfectly trimmed hedges and crops of blooming bulbs. There’s a profuse amount of brick that you don’t normally find on the West Coast, and street addresses are done up in gold lettering. BMWs and Audis and the occasional minivan dot the tidy curbsides.
After the castle I head down Fort Street which is lined with small shops and antique stores, dodging the usual bums and women pushing strollers. I’ve never understood those people who run through a city’s downtown, especially when there are so many beautiful places that don’t have wandering drug addicts and lights and traffic and endless people, but now I kind of understand it. It makes your run more of a challenge, like you’re completing an obstacle course. It turns into a game, and I always have to win the game.
Usually when I run, I go my usual distance but never push myself to go further because running is already hard enough. But by the time I end up at the massive Empress Hotel that overlooks the harbor, panting, red-faced, and dripping with sweat, I realize that I’ve run six kilometers which is double what I usually do, and that’s just one way. I didn’t curse myself or my jelly legs even once.
With the seagulls wheeling overhead, I lean against the railing and stare down at the boats in the marina below, a few whale watching charters heading out hoping to spot our local orca pods. The tourists are all bundled in red raincoats that hang to their knees, chatting excitedly and taking pictures of everything, including me.
Against my better judgement, I wave at them, and they wave back before their attention turns to a seaplane making a very loud and low entrance onto the water.
I breathe in deep, my heart finally slowing down, and turn around to contemplate whether I should walk back or run back. I didn’t bring any money, so I couldn’t take the bus even if I felt like it. My mind during the run was blissfully blank, but on the way back I will have plenty of time to think. There’s this anxiety, restlessness running through me lately, causing my gut to twist, my heart to kick it up a few notches, usually late at night. I thought it was attributed to being without Alan, but now I’m not so sure.
I stretch my arms above my head, twisting to the side, when I suddenly see something that makes me freeze.
It’s Blake Motherfucking Crawford.
He’s got his sunglasses on, aviators like all assholes wear, and is walking up the sidewalk with a neon yellow tote bag that says Crawford’s Books. For some reason I’m focusing on the tote, which doesn’t exactly go with his Converse shoes, black jeans, grey T-shirt, and black leather jacket. And as he walks toward me, seeming not to notice that I’m almost standing in his way, I’m putting two and two together. Is he somehow involved with the bookstore around the corner?
And there it is, the slight flash of recognition in his brows as they dart up, lines in his forehead deepening. Yet he keeps walking.
“Um, hello?” I practically yell at him, throwing my arms out to the side.
“Amanda,” he says, stopping but taking two steps back. He clears his throat. “Nice morning.” He says this so warily, like the sky is about to fall on us. Given the weather here, he’s probably not that far off.
“Yeah,” I say, wanting to bring up the email, but my eyes drift back to the tote. “You aren’t by any chance related to Crawford’s Books?”
“What?” He looks down at the bag and winces. “Oh yes. Yes I am. And I work there. That’s my father who incongruously ordered neon yellow tote bags because he thought they would be more eye-catching.”
“Hate to say it worked,” I tell him, and part of me wants to chalk up the fact that his father owns one of my favorite bookstores as a plus to his character (also the fact that he dropped incongruously in a sentence), but my innate dislike of him won’t allow it. Even though our conversation is going okay so far, I automatically lean back and fold my arms across my chest, on the defensive.
He nods quickly, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I know they’re darting all over the place. His hand goes to the back of his neck, rubbing at it, and he clears his throat, all signs of being uncomfortable. I would have thought if I ran into Blake outside of class he would have free douchebag rein with me, but maybe I’ve misjudged him.