Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“Oh, for sure.”
We laugh and keep talking about what life would be like if we lived in fantasy worlds, both agreeing I’d lead some sort of rebellion and Sam would end up being the one burned at the stake, accused that his claims of science and medicine are actually witchcraft.
Sam puts his shirt on when we get to his car, and I pull my hair out of my ponytail, wishing I had a brush. I do my best to rake it out with my fingers before getting in the car, throwing the loose strands that came out into the wind. It’s a wonder I’m not bald with how much hair I shed every single day.
We give the car a few seconds to air out before getting in. Sam turns on the vented seats and puts the air on full blast. The radio is on and connects to Sam’s phone. Tom Petty starts playing, taking me right back to the days when Sam drove me home from school.
The parking lot is pretty full at Sunset Tavern, even though they only opened an hour ago. The hostess looks at us like we don’t belong, and I suppose we do look a little out of place for a “nice” restaurant since we’re both sweaty and dressed in workout clothes. There’s no dress code or anything here, though, and my Lululemon workout pants probably cost more than the average patron’s entire outfit. She holds up her finger, giving up the “one moment” signal, and looks back down at her phone, grinning at whatever she’s typing. We move closer, and I see she’s on Instagram—her personal Instagram, so I can’t even justify her as managing the restaurant’s social media accounts.
I’m not one to flaunt anything in anyone’s face, but I hate seeing someone scoff like this. What gives this hostess the right to look at anyone like they’re less than and not good enough for her time of day? I can shrug this off, knowing that I’m not what she thinks, and I’m sure Sam can too. But there are others whose day will be ruined by being treated so rudely. They might have fragile self-esteem to begin with, and having someone act like you’re beneath them hurts.
A family comes in behind us, and the mom is nicely dressed in a pink sundress. Her daughter who looks to be about four or five is wearing a matching dress. They look so freaking cute, and their infant son is coordinating with the dad. The mom has a designer purse hanging from her shoulder and the hostess looks at them with a smile.
“Hi, how many?” she asks, and the mom looks at us, a bit confused.
“I think they were ahead of us.”
“Yes,” Sam says pointedly. “We were.” He looks at me, resting his hand on my arm. “Unless you want to go somewhere else, Chloe. I know you’re short on time since you have to work on your next bestselling book.” He says it on purpose, I know, and I love this slightly petty side of Sam.
“You’re Chloe?” the mom behind us asks. “Oh my goodness, I thought you looked familiar. Russ, this is Chloe Fisher, the girl who wrote the Nightfall series! Her photo is up in City Hall!”
The hostess’s face pales when she realized how incredibly stupid she was to stereotype us based on how we look. I turn, smiling broadly, and chat with the mom for a minute. She has a worn copy of the first book of the series in her car and sends her husband outside to get it. I sign it, take a photo with her, and then link my arm through Sam’s as we’re led to our table.
“Sorry if that embarrassed you,” he tells me once we’re seated. We’re on the rooftop, and only two other tables up here are occupied. Most people had enough sense to eat inside in the air conditioning today. We get a table along the balcony railing, with a green umbrella in the middle, giving us shade from the hot sun. “Maybe it was just me, but that hostess was bitchy.”
“Oh, she was, and it didn’t. It’s weird coming back here, though. I promise I don’t get recognized like this anywhere other than Silver Ridge.”
“Everyone loves a success story.”
“You’re successful.”
“I am,” he agrees. “But it’s not the same.”
“It’s not at all.” I open the drink menu, debating on getting a spiked lemonade for a second. It’s way too hot to drink alcohol, and sitting here with Sam is intoxicating enough. “You’re saving lives. I’m just writing about fictional people.”
“When you put it that way, I do sound awesome.”
I lean back in my chair, trying to stretch my shoulders. My bad posture all night paired with almost falling down a ravine has created a knot in my muscles. Sam’s phone rings, and he silences the call again, but not before I catch the name on the screen.