Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
But that’s kind of the point.
I don’t want another woman.
I want the one I had before she was heartlessly ripped from this world without warning by some spineless coward who hit her with their car and fled the scene before they could answer for what they did. The fact that the bastard is still out there, living life like nothing ever happened while our lives were permanently altered, is something I’ve yet to get over.
I don’t know that I ever will.
Not even sure that I can.
“Another one, sir?” The young, overly friendly bartender points to my empty drink. He can’t be much older than twenty-two or twenty-three, if I had to guess. Judging by the stars in his eyes, life hasn’t screwed with him yet.
But it will.
Sooner or later, it always does.
I check the time on my phone—my blind date should be here any minute.
“Might as well.” I slide the glass his way, and he uncaps a bottle of top-shelf Macallan, pouring two fingers’ worth and then some, like he senses I’m on the cusp of something . . . unnatural. I’ve never been one to let nerves show, but I imagine I’m giving off the kind of vibe that tells everyone within a ten-foot radius that this is the last place I want to be tonight. “That’s good. Thank you.”
I take a sip and scan the restaurant portion of the bar in search of the poor woman my aunt sent to “save me from myself.”
Her words, of course.
For the past few months, she hasn’t stopped telling me about one of her employees at Lucerne Product Development, some blue-eyed, blonde-haired, bubbly “fun-time girl” who would “pull me out of my shell” and “usher me back into the world of the living.”
I didn’t waste my breath telling her blondes have never been my type.
And I love my shell—it’s impenetrable.
It’s Teflon and Kevlar and Fort Knox.
It’s where my daughters are.
It’s my entire world . . . what remains of it, anyway.
While I’ve no doubt been existing with one foot in the grave and the other one in the land of the living, there’s no time stamp on grief. It takes however long it takes. I’m not going to hurry it up so my meddling-but-well-intentioned aunt has one less thing to worry about.
That’s the thing about death—it’s inconvenient as hell, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.
Nevertheless, Theodora is the most persistent person on the face of the earth. She refuses to take no for an answer—which is how I ended up here . . . at the bar of some hotel restaurant in Gramercy Park, waiting for some poor stranger who’s likely only doing this as a favor to her insistent boss.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I pull up the Lucerne Product Development site, tap on the employee directory, and type in the name my aunt gave me: Margo.
Zero results.
Exhaling, I change the spelling, this time searching up Margaux.
The first result, Margaux Abbott, looks old enough to be my grandmother—white hair, chained glasses, librarian frown and all.
The second listing, Margaux Sheridan, matches Aunt Theodora’s description of blonde and blue eyed. A blinding white smile that takes up the entire lower half of her face alludes to the bubbly part. I zoom in, examining her as if I’m looking for clues to some mystery—or a sign that tonight’s not going to be an awkward, uncomfortable, complete waste of time.
Pale-pink earrings in the shape of large-petaled flowers hang from Margaux’s ears in her company directory photo, and her lashes are much too long, dark, and thick to be natural. A triple-layer pearl necklace is fastened around her neck, and a diamond cameo brooch adorns her lapel. I can’t be sure if she’s going for a coastal grandma look or if this is some kind of a joke.
Darkening my screen, I return my phone to my pocket and my attention to my scotch.
“Mr. Bellisario?” A petite hostess dressed fittingly in head-to-toe black places a palm on my shoulder. “Your table is ready.”
Drink in hand, I follow her to a corner booth with a single flickering candle, a pristine white tablecloth, and a small vase of three red roses in full bloom.
It’s so romantically cliché it’s almost laughable.
Once seated, I take a deep breath, get my shit together, and steal a glance around the room. All around me, silverware clinks against china and stemware. Voices drone on, conversations layered one on top of the other. The smell of expensive perfume and aftershave dances through the air, mixed with the savory scents of a five-star dining experience.
Everywhere I look are couples, their faces painted in soft candlelight as they gaze across the table at one another with stars for eyes. This restaurant gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “Love is in the air.”