Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 89142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I get into a cab with her, and she gives the cabbie her address. She lives in a decent area, in a building with a doorman and security. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I live in a converted brownstone in an area that’s safe but not quite as nice as her building. I could afford better, but my flat suits me.
When we arrive, I help her out of the cab, still wearing my mask and cape.
“Please let me see you up,” I say.
“I’m perfectly safe, Phantom.” She laughs lightly. “I mean Hunter.”
I warm at the sound of my name from her lips.
Warmth with goosebumps. An odd sensation.
“Hunter is a beautiful name. I’m not a student of language, but I’m pretty sure I know what it means.”
“In this case, it means exactly what you think it means.”
“Does your family hunt?”
“No. Hunter is actually my grandmother’s maiden name.”
“Well, it is a beautiful name.”
“So is Francesca.”
She makes a face. “If you say so.”
“I do. And I also insist that you let me walk you up.”
She sighs. “I suppose it’s okay. You already know where I live now.”
We walk past the doorman.
“Good evening, Ms. Thomas,” he says.
“Good evening, Clancy.”
Once in the building, we take the elevator to the fourth floor. She leads me down the hallway to apartment 471.
I etch it into my memory.
Not that I’ll forget anything about Francesca Thomas anytime soon.
She pulls out her key, and I take it from her, unlocking her door. Then I kiss her on her lips.
“Good night, Frankie.”
“Good night, Hunter.”
She doesn’t invite me in, and that’s okay. This was a rough night for her, seeing her ex at the club. I wait until she’s inside and the lock clicks.
Then I leave.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Frankie
Hunter.
It’s late. After one a.m.
Hunter.
It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s a first name.
I also know he’s well-versed in world literature, and that he’s a student of language. His favorite musical is Camelot. His favorite novel is The Great Gatsby. He kisses like a dream.
And his first name is Hunter.
Not Erik with a K, although I suppose he could still be the person I spoke to in the chat room, since I asked for pseudonyms.
But already I know he’s not.
I know because when I ask a question he doesn’t want to answer, he doesn’t lie to me. He just doesn’t reply.
Interesting.
I’m exhausted, so I wash my face quickly and head to bed. And I hope to dream about a masked man named Hunter.
…
Morning comes quickly, and I get up for my jog—
And I remember.
Crap.
I’m supposed to meet Tom Carson for a jog in Central Park.
I could easily break the date. I have his number, and I could text him. But I’m not a rude person. And Hunter and I… Well, he’s agreed not to have sex with anyone else as long as we’re having sex, but he didn’t agree not to go jogging with anyone else.
So why should I agree to that?
I take a quick shower, dress in my running shoes with some leggings and a sports bra, and I head to Central Park.
Tom is already there, stretching. “You’re not known for your punctuality, are you?”
“Nope, just running a little bit late.” I give my hamstrings a stretch. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem. Let’s go.”
“What route do you like to take?”
“The full loop is about six miles. So a quarter? A mile and a half and then back? We can keep track with our apps.”
“Sounds great to me,” I say. “Let’s go. Last one there’s a rotten egg.”
I have no idea why I said that. I never race when I jog. We end up keeping pretty much apace with each other, and it gives us a good chance to not talk.
I’m used to doing Five K runs, so this is easy. The run takes only twenty minutes, and soon we’re back where we started, wiping off with towels and taking deep drinks from our water bottles.
“How about a cup of coffee?” Tom says.
What the heck? I could use some caffeine, and coffee is just coffee. “Sure. Sounds good.”
We walk a few blocks to a Bean There Done That and enter. I grab my credit card out of my phone case, but Tom shakes his head at me.
“Please. My treat.”
“No, let me. You paid for dinner last night.”
He smiles. “Okay. But just this once.”
It may only be this once, but I don’t say that. “Black coffee for me,” I tell the cashier. “Whatever he wants.”
“I’ll have a cinnamon mocha,” he says.
Ugh. He likes froufrou coffee drinks.
Not that I don’t like a cinnamon mocha on occasion, but it’s mostly just empty calories. Of course, Tom is training for a marathon, so he doesn’t have to worry about calories.
I slide my credit card through the reader and add a tip while the barista pours my black coffee. “The cinnamon mocha will be up in a few minutes.”