Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
There. It’s simple and true. Probably the first true thing I’ve said in the last several minutes. And I sure hope it’s enough.
“And you asked her out that night?”
“Well, sort of,” Elodie says with a light laugh.
I clench my teeth. Seriously?
But Felix is leaning forward in his chair, enrapt as Elodie spins more fables. “He came by my shop to ask me out. You see, the real funny thing is I accidentally sent him—”
“A new showerhead,” I supply.
She blinks. Once, twice. Then smiles widely. “Yes. A showerhead and a book of love poems.”
Fuuuuck. She was going to say book not battery-operated-boyfriend. She’s smoother than I am. “And he returned the book of love poems to my shop,” she adds.
“I did. The showerhead too,” I say tightly, white-knuckling my way through this. So much for keeping up with Elodie. She’s way ahead of me, and I’m not sure I can ever match her pace.
Felix chuckles. “That is one of the best how-we-met stories I’ve ever heard. Perfect marketing, too, for Special Edition.”
Ohhh.
That was the method to her madness.
She’s genius.
“Huh,” Elodie says, like she just realized that. The woman can act. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re probably right.”
“It was kismet you stopped by the other night,” Felix says, then taps his desk and rises. “I have a few more candidates coming by later today, but unless someone wows me, you’re the front-runners.” I want to both punch the sky and curse the moon. “I’ll need to move on this right away. Holidays and all.”
“Right, of course,” I say.
No worries. You won’t see us again. Because this is not what I signed up for.
“If the timing works out, we should do a photo shoot of the two of you,” he says as he comes around the desk. “Put pictures on the hotel’s social media.”
“That would be great,” Elodie says, all cheery and bright, like her dress. Her totally delicious-looking outfit that’s not helping me stay mad at her, but I am mad at her. But I’m mad at me, too, for not having a better handle on the situation.
Felix shows us out and says goodbye in the lobby. The two of us remain tight-lipped on the way through the courtyard, then down the steps. Finally, when we’re walking along the block, a safe distance away, I hiss, “We need to talk.”
“I know,” she retorts, in a tone laced with vinegar.
She’s mad at me? That only ticks me off more.
We march out to the square in the center of Hayes Valley, where a man with a mustache rides a unicycle while moms and dads with toddlers drop bills into his hat. Nearby, a violinist tunes her instrument. Elodie gazes briefly at the buskers, then dips her hand into her pocket and tosses some bills for each. Once done, she turns to me, I’m waiting written in those blue eyes.
Shaking my head, I grasp her hand. “Not here.”
I tug her across the street, dragging her behind a food truck making Cuban sandwiches and playing a tune in Spanish. I cross my arms. “Talk. Why did you just up the ante like that? He might have rented to us because he thought we were together. Then you went and told him we were getting married. And you listed all those locations. What the hell?”
“Because you said we were committed,” she fires back, taking no shit.
“I was feeling you out,” I say, just as fast, just as furious. Doesn’t she get it?
Her eyes pop open wider, and she stares at me like I’ve lost it. “In a meeting? You were feeling me out in a meeting?”
“I was trying to read you like a pitcher reads a catcher.”
She scoffs, her brow creasing. “It’s not a baseball game. We don’t have signs. It’s a business negotiation. How could I possibly have known when you said who wouldn’t be committed that you meant you were feeling me out?”
But I’m not letting this go. I’m pissed for reasons I don’t even fully understand. “How would I think you’d jump ten steps ahead to tell him about the Conservatory of Flowers? The rotunda? He’s practically offered us space here to get hitched,” I say, gesturing wildly to the hotel in the distance, frustration rising high inside me. I stab my chest. “I’ve been married. I don’t need to do that again.”
She freezes. Then takes a beat, probably to process the truth bomb I just dropped. One I didn’t expect to blurt out. “Noted,” she says evenly, but in a way that’s clear I’ve hurt her.
Shit. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
She holds up both hands, shaking her head. “I get it.”
“I don’t have anything against marriage. I just…I don’t—”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to explain yourself.”
But I do. Because now I do understand why I was angry at first. She’d hit a sore spot back there.