Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Yeah. I still don’t know what to define this as, but I do know that dinner was at a swanky steakhouse with candlelit tables and soft piano music and the kind of romantic vibes that made it feel very…date-ish.
And Chase, well, he’s the best date-ish dinner and nightclub partner a girl could ask for. Handsome, funny, intelligent, and charming to boot, he could’ve fed me my steak from the palm of his hand, and I would’ve gladly eaten it that way.
Besides the booming volume of the music in this club, I wouldn’t change a thing about my current situation.
Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest thirty-one-year-old woman who’s ever lived, or because I almost never come to places like this, but I can’t deny the music inside this joint is…a bit over the top in its magnitude. Nearly overwhelming if you’re trying to have a conversation.
“It’s really loud!” I yell over the music, pretty much directly into Chase’s eardrum. That’s the only way to hear in a place like this when you’re over thirty, I’m convinced.
Don’t get me wrong, the club itself is beautiful and, on top of that, filled with hordes of gorgeous people. I can tell it’s popular for a reason and would even say that Chase did an excellent and thoughtful job of picking it out with the number of times the DJ’s mixed in snippets of Dolly songs with the pounding house music.
But that doesn’t make either of us any younger.
“You should be proud!” he yells back into my ear canal, in the world’s saddest game of elderly telephone I’ve ever participated in.
The lights swirl, and a very heavy beat that makes my chest pulse has Benji moving even closer to my feet. We got a table and bottle service, of all things, and I feel like the biggest impostor that’s ever postored before. But we needed a spot out of the way so that Benji would be able to chill out from under the trampling feet of real clubbers, and I don’t think I’d make it more than ten minutes standing on these heels, so sitting was a must.
It just feels like an out-of-body experience to be having this much “fun” after what I was doing in my own apartment before I left for this tour—power cleaning, chugging wine, and tripping over a chunky knit blanket that’s several days past its need for a washing.
“This is a huge accomplishment, Brooke. Huge. There are so few writers who make it to the slop.”
“The slop?” I ask, confused.
He nods, confusing me more. “The very slop. Statistically, you’re probably in the highest half-percent of writers.”
“Ohh. The top!”
“I won’t stop! You deserve to hear this stuff aloud!”
I can’t help it. A laugh starts in my stomach and bubbles all the way up my throat until I’m cackling, hunching over, and slapping at my chest to keep myself from choking on my saliva.
We’re like a couple of geriatrics who got lost on their way to bingo in here. But God, even old man Chase is sweet.
And he just sits there, looking at me with a quizzical smile. He’s handsome as hell, but then again, that’s always to be expected with him.
“Thanks for doing this,” I lean in and try to say clearly and directly into his ear. “Tonight, I mean. Dinner and this. It’s been a long time since I’ve treated myself to anything quite so special.”
He nods. “That’s to be expected, I think. Anyone who makes it to this level is bound to get at least a little existential.”
I have no clue what he thinks I said, and quite frankly, I don’t even care anymore. My smile is so big it hurts, and he smells so good. We need to try something other than talking.
Dancing.
I shove to standing and hold out my hand, rather than trying to communicate verbally, and he takes the hint pretty well.
He accepts my proffered hand humbly, but by the time we make it out of the booth and down the steps toward the dance floor, he’s rearranged us so that he is in the lead, pulling me with gentle confidence right to the center.
I look back at Benji, who’s jumped up on the booth seat to have a better view of me, and I give him a nod of confidence that it’s okay. He sits but doesn’t relax any further.
His message is clear: he’ll be watching me.
I’m not entirely sure if it’s the message of my service canine or my overprotective best friend. My superhero Benji knows my heart better than anyone—and not just the way it’s supposed to beat.
Chase’s hand is firm as he spins me around to face him, his hands coming to my hips to position my body against his. From the speakers, a bass-thumping mix of a Depeche Mode song that I’ve loved for as long as I can remember vibrates the air. It’s called “Enjoy the Silence,” and it’s like the DJ chose this song just for me.