Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
“I think Batman could tame Mystique,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Tame her?”
“She just needs to be loved,” he says, and there’s that grin again.
“That’s how you see her?”
“That’s how she is,” he says, as one of his curls falls across his face. Just before I reach for it, he pushes it back. I’m mesmerized, completely under his spell. He could tell me anything right now and I’d believe him. I want to hear everything he has to say.
“You’re British,” I say.
“I like you,” he replies. An answering smile curls around my lips.
“You don’t know me,” I say, still grinning. I want him to like me.
“I want to know more,” he says, and his eyes do this sparkly, sexy, flirty thing. I find myself nodding.
“What do you want to know?”
“Your number,” he says, pulling out his phone.
I laugh. “I’ve known you five seconds. Why would I give you my number?”
“We’ve got the start of something beautiful here. I know you feel it. Why wouldn’t you give me your number?”
There’s definitely something in the air between us. A buzz of connection or attraction or chemistry. But he’s so handsome. So confident. How many numbers has this guy already gathered tonight? He’s probably in competition with his friends for who can get the most numbers.
“How’s life across the pond?”
“I was born there, but been stateside since I was fifteen. New York feels like home.” He freezes and frowns for the first time since we started speaking. “Not just home, but destiny.”
“Wow. Destiny? That’s a very un-New York kinda thing to say.”
He laughs, the sound reaching every molecule of his body. “Maybe New Yorkers don’t realize how lucky they are if they’re born into this city. Are you a native?”
“I grew up in Jersey,” I reply. “Still live there. Travel across for work. Tell me your top three favorite things about the city.”
He pulls in a breath and his chest lifts. I fight the urge to sweep my hand across it. “I don’t know where to start. I can only have three?”
“Start with three,” I say.
“Early mornings. There’s a different vibe and it feels like a secret city. People talk about New York at night—Broadway, clubs, the Empire State Building lit up in different colors. That’s cool and everything, but for me, New York is at its best in the early morning. I love to hear the clank of delivery trucks opening their back doors. I like to go on a run through Midtown when the streets are deserted and imagine the tens of thousands of tourists tucked up in their hotel bedrooms in the buildings around me. I love the fact I can hide from the sun entirely because the buildings dictate where it shines—”
“Wait, you like that the buildings block out the sun?”
“They don’t block it, but the architecture and engineering protect people from the heat as much as they can. It’s a city that celebrates human innovation and progress. It tells you that even on a tiny island, great things can happen.”
“Huh. That’s an interesting take.”
“What about you? You like the city?”
“I’m not sure I’ve given it as much thought as you.”
He laughs. “Spoken like someone who was raised in Jersey. See, you’ve taken it for granted. It’s the best city on earth and you’ve always known it’s just across the river, tempting you with every opportunity you could ever wish for.”
This guy is so positive, it’s difficult to see an opposing point of view. Is this how cults start? If he asked me right now, I’d probably sign up to whatever he was selling.
“I like the idea of being tempted with possibility,” I say.
He grins at me like he’s just watched me unwrap a Christmas present. “I meant it when I said I like you. If you’re not going to give me your number, will you take mine? I’d really like to take you to dinner. See if this chemistry is…”
“Destiny?”
He laughs. “What a very un-New York thing that would be.”
I should walk away. He’s talking chemistry and destiny and I know it’s all bullshit. I know it in my head, but there’s a tiny piece of my heart that’s sucking it up like he’s pouring water into the mouth of a parched camel.
I hand him my phone.
He looks down to key in the number, and honestly, the shift of his gaze is like the sun passing behind the Empire State Building. The room has gone from spring to winter in the blink of an eye.
Did this guy slip something into my drink? It’s like I’m bewitched. I realize I don’t even know his name.
“Leo Hart,” he says as he types, as if he’s answering the question I just asked in my head. “By the end of the evening, I really hope I’ve convinced you to call me, Mystique.”
“You want me to call you Mystique?” I ask.