Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Your food’s here, Mad!” I shout as I reach for the door handle, yanking it open. “Did you pa—”
I freeze as I discover it’s not China Wok.
It’s Alec.
This is unfair. He looks amazing. His hair is just-showered wet, and I can smell his intoxicating aftershave from here. He’s wearing a peacoat and scarf, flurries of snow dusting his shoulders, like the male lead of a Hallmark Christmas movie.
He’s holding a blue box that at first I think is something from Tiffany’s—but then realize is just some folded scrubs.
“Uh …” I start, as I realize that I’m wearing the ugliest ensemble known to man. Actually, if I’d thought about it for months, I probably wouldn’t have been able to scrape together a more horrific outfit.
“Hey,” he says, and then his brow wrinkles and he starts to wipe at his chin. “You …”
Me … what does he mean, me? He’s trying to tell me something, but damned if I know what it is. Probably something along the lines of, You look utterly hideous.
Then I realize he’s gesturing to tell me I have something on my face. I feel there, and sure enough, I have dried pizza sauce crusted on my chin.
Lovely.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” I woodenly state the obvious.
“Yeah. I know. Sorry if I’m bothering you.”
The only bother is that I never expected him. Yes, we live next door to one another, but he’s never been so bold as to knock on my door. Why? And more importantly, why now?
“It’s fine … I just thought you were Chinese.” I fold my arms. “So … can I help you or … ?”
I sound like an idiot. I’ve clearly been stuffing my face with pizza, and now I’ve just moved onto Chinese takeout. He must think all I do on my days off is sit on the sofa, looking like a homeless person as I stuff my face with bad food.
“Just wanted to drop this off.” He hands the folded scrubs shirt at me.
Confused, I don’t make a move to take it. Why does he want to give me some ratty hospital scrubs? “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s not the shirt—it’s what’s inside the shirt. I didn’t have time to wrap it. So …”
Wrap it? So it’s like a gift? Why is he giving me gifts? For some reason, that makes me even more suspicious, because a gift from Alec can only be something like exploding cigars or those fake packets of gum that shock your finger when you take a piece, but I accept it anyway. There’s something hard and heavy inside. “Thanks.”
Unfolding the scrub shirt, I find a beautiful, hardbound copy of Doctor Zhivago.
Now the pieces are falling into place. Points to him, for remembering. And there are no mousetraps in sight. I open it up, expecting it to be in Pig Latin, or something, but it’s not. It’s an actual, real gift.
“Oh … wow.” I trace my fingers along the timeworn pages.
When I look up, he’s rocking from toe to heel on his feet, his hands in his pocket, smiling. “Your D book. I figured you were ready to move on.”
I nudge aside the fabric of my wearable blanket and produce the book, wrapped around my other hand. Dangerous Liaisons. “You’re too late. I already did.”
He winces, mock hurt. “Ah. That’s quite a departure from a book about a humble pig.”
“Well, yes. Variety is the spice of life.” I crack open the spine of the book again and notice the signature scrawled on the title page, and my eyes bug out. “This is a signed first edition.”
He nods, proud of himself.
Okay, now I’m really confused. What’s his game? Why is he trying to charm me, of all people? How could he possibly benefit from getting into my good graces? I mean, he already got laid. If a conquest was what he was looking for, he can cross that off the ol’ bucket list. What else could I give him other than crappy free pizza?
And what could he give me, other than a heart broken worse than the first time he shattered it? He’s a bull and I’m the china shop. He’s pizza and I’m pineapple. We have no business being together, no matter what stupid ideas he has in his head.
I can’t feed into this, whatever this is.
I glance back into the apartment for a moment and see Mad quietly but wildly flailing her arms, gesturing and mouthing that I should let him in. I shake my head slightly, pull the door closed a bit more so that Alec won’t see her machinations, and clear my throat.
“Thank you for the gift. I have to go to bed. Goodnight,” I say stiffly.
His eyebrow lifts. “Before Chinese?”
“That’s for my roommate. Goodnight,” I repeat more forcefully.
“Ah.”
As I start to close the door, I expect he’ll argue. Because don’t we always argue?