Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
His lips twitched, fighting a smile, but it broke loose anyway. Oh my. A smiling Ambrose Casablancas could light up the world better than the rising sun. “What other brainy dreams did you make up to avoid the real thing, Dot?”
“Oh…too many to count.” I absentmindedly flipped through the song list of the little jukebox. “Dream job, ultimate kiss, apartment…I can pretty much imagine anything if I put my mind to it.” I tapped my temple. “This baby is all free, and inside it, I’m living my best life.”
“It also doesn’t require you to lift a finger, fail, get burned. You’re missing out on all the real things.”
“Reality is never as good as the dream.” I shrugged. “Why try?”
“Reality is better,” he argued. “It’s gritty and three-dimensional. What’s your dream kiss scenario?”
“It keeps changing. But there are a few ingredients that stay the same. Moonlight, music, and a chin tilt.” I paused. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?” I needed to stop flirting with him, but I was too excited about this new discovery, and I’d just found the perfect distraction to take my mind off the misery of losing Dad.
“No need. My memory has never failed me.” He brushed his thumb over his lower lip, awarding me with an arousal-induced brain aneurysm.
I laughed awkwardly. “Well, I think we had our run. Hey, wait a minute.” I straightened my back, my eyes widening. “Row, I ran.”
“You did.” His lips twitched again. “Bitched about it the entire time, but you did four miles and some change.”
“No. You don’t understand. I ran.” I stood up, pounding my hands on the table between us, making customers jolt with surprise.
Row folded his arms over his chest, leaning back in his booth smugly. “Told you you’re pretty great.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
“Now you can do it every morning.”
“Are you crazy?” I fell back onto the vinyl, my smile collapsing with me. “You distracted me with a love declaration. I can’t do it without you.”
“Are you crazy?” He unzipped his windbreaker, revealing a tight, short-sleeved white Henley and muscle definition that would make Channing Tatum weep with envy. “I’m not running with you every morning. I just wanted to prove to you that you can.”
“But I want to run the 10K for Kiddies,” I cried out.
“Sounds like a you problem, Dot.”
“We are all one according to Buddhism. So technically, your problem too.”
“Grew up Catholic. So technically, I can tell you to fuck off, then confess I was an ass and say my Hail Marys and still go to heaven. What’s taking them so long to serve us?” He looked around. He was right. It had been ten minutes and we still didn’t even have menus.
“Maybe it’s your BO.” I threw another balled-up straw wrapper at him.
“Maybe it’s your BS,” he retorted, tugging a napkin over, squishing it, and tossing it on my face. “Stay here, gonna inform Dahlia her staff is slacking off.”
“Please don’t be…” I trailed off, wincing. Rude? Disgusting? Overbearing? He stared at me expectedly. “You,” I finished, gulping.
“Gotcha. I’ll try to be Kieran. If you see my tongue trapped in someone’s rectum, send help.” He gave me a once-over. “Unless it’s yours. That’s intentional.”
Oh. My. God.
Row slipped out of the booth before I had the chance to combust into a trillion pieces. He headed toward the red and checked Formica counter, where Dahlia was chewing gum in decibels more fitted to a Taylor Swift concert and banging an order into the computer with her mile-long nails. I perched my chin on my knuckles and drummed my fingers over the table. My mind was still reeling from the revelation that Row had once loved me. That he was McMonster. I couldn’t wait to get home and reread our entire conversation thread starting three years ago.
Calm your tits, Cal, and while you’re at it, tell the rest of you to chill. It wasn’t like we could ever be something now. And for plenty of reasons:
He was a famous multimillionaire with one-point-seven million Instagram followers, a Netflix deal, and Michelin-starred restaurants, and I was so broke, I couldn’t afford to feed the rats that were squatting in my apartment.
He was moving to London and I was returning to New York.
Regardless of what Row had said, Dylan still might not be on board with us knocking boots, and I definitely wasn’t pushing my luck a second time.
Just because I wasn’t scared of Row physically, didn’t mean I wasn’t scared of forming a relationship with him.
Through the heavy fog of my overthinking, I heard “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra jamming through a nearby jukebox.
I whipped my head to see what was taking Row so long and found him by the register, still talking to Dahlia. A bombshell of a woman in her fifties, with a strong Louisiana accent, big, bleached hair, a slim waist, and enough makeup to cover the state of Idaho. Dahlia was all about Elvis, Jesus, and horses. Her only fear was God. Even He, I suspected, couldn’t comment on her business and get out of it in one piece. One of her faux-lashed eyes was twitching—a telltale sign she was angry—while Row appeared completely blasé, save for the red tips of his ears. Ropes of dread tightened around my stomach. This didn’t seem like a conversation as much as it did a standoff.