Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“So complicated,” Winnie agreed with a laugh. “But my point is, there are some things you just have to leave up to fate. You can’t rush them. And you can’t plan them.”
“So that’s it?” Cranky, I got off the bed and headed for the minibar. “I just while away my days waiting for lightning to strike? That’s not me, Winnie. I’m a doer, not a waiter.”
“But you keep doing the wrong thing. You just have a pattern—you choose guys that need fixing, you solve their problems, part ways with them, and then they go on to meet the love of their lives because you helped them get over their baggage. You need to get out of that rut.”
“You’re not helping,” I told her, perusing the tiny bottles of booze and overpriced snacks in the fridge.
“Want my advice?”
“Maybe,” I said, wondering if I had to feel bad that the little sister was the one handing out wisdom to the big sister. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Seemed like yesterday she was wearing footie pajamas and had syrup in her hair. It actually made me smile, thinking about those frantic school mornings where our dad, who’d raised the three of us on his own after our mother left, would scramble to get out the door on time.
We’d lived that way for a few years before he married Frannie, our amazing stepmom, who’d been more of a mother to me in every way than my biological mom. It was from watching my dad and Frannie that I’d learned to believe in real love, the kind that lasts.
I just didn’t know where to find it.
“My advice,” Winnie went on, “is to change your luck. Get off the hamster wheel.”
I shut the minibar door. “How do I do that?”
She thought for a moment. “Do something you wouldn’t normally do. I say you put on something cute, go down to the hotel bar, and flirt with a handsome, mysterious stranger.”
I laughed. “Are you nuts? It’s after nine. That’s my bedtime.”
“You need to get out of your routine, that’s the point! Listen, there must be other people stranded by the storm tonight, and odds are at least one of them is hot, single, and looking for a one-night stand with a bombshell blonde.”
“I’m already in my pajamas.” But I wandered over to my suitcase and opened it up, rifling through it for something cute. Maybe getting out of my room would help my mood.
“So change out of them! What if downstairs right now is the man of your dreams? One with piercing dark eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a magic dick?”
I laughed as I pulled out a black dress I hadn’t worn while I was here. “How am I supposed to spot a magic dick across the room?”
“You won’t actually be able to spot it, but judging by the rest of him, it will be strongly implied.”
Laughing, I held the dress against my body and looked in the mirror. “I guess I could go down and get a drink. But no promises about a one-night stand.”
“I’m not asking for a promise. I’m just asking that you try being a little less predictable, and a little more adventurous. Plot twists are fun.”
I felt myself caving. Maybe Winnie was right. “Okay, I’ll go down to the bar and see if a plot twist catches my eye.”
“Good. But no puppies!”
Half an hour later, I walked into the dimly lit bar off the lobby of the small, upscale hotel where I was staying. I’d chosen not to stay at the huge hotel where the expo was being held because by the end of the day, I was done with people and really craved peace, quiet, and a paperback. I also liked to check out more intimate, boutique hotels whenever I traveled, since Cloverleigh Farms was also a small inn and I loved seeing what other places were doing.
I particularly liked the cozy, elegant bar here—its low lighting from vintage brass wall sconces and fringed table lamps, its fern-colored walls and ceiling, the emerald-green leather and brass barstools, the moss-green velvet banquettes along the wall. The vibe was sort of Emerald City meets Restoration Hardware, and I was a sucker for anything with a whiff of a 1920s speakeasy, especially with Amy Winehouse on the speakers.
The place was busy—was I the only person under eighty that went to bed before ten on a Thursday night?—but I spotted one empty barstool and made my way toward it, conscious of eyes that followed me. I wasn’t mad about it. I’d curled my long blond hair and given myself a smoky eye. My black dress clung to my plentiful curves, and while it wasn’t short or low-cut, it was one-shouldered with a slit on one side that showed some leg. And I was wearing a shade of lipstick called Red Carpet, which you shouldn’t really wear if you just want to blend into the wallpaper.