Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
She wobbled side to side on her mismatched shoes as she dug a phone from her bag and handed it to me.
I pressed the screen and saw it was locked. “Password protected.”
“Two. Zero. One. Five. It’s an important date.”
“You really shouldn’t give that out to strangers. Kind of defeats the purpose.”
“As if. I don’t think you’re going to steal anything from me. From the look of your cufflinks, you could buy Apple.”
“Observant. Listen, here’s your phone back. I believe you.” I had a question to ask her, though. “Two thousand fifteen. Let me guess. Is that the year you graduated from college?”
“Try high school.”
Shit. She had to be twenty-three, tops, which made our age difference fourteen years. I took a step back, and she tilted her head.
“Peaches. Herb,” a barista called out. One of them was finally mine.
“That’s me,” we both said at the same time.
“Your name is Peaches?”
“Your name is Herb?” Again, we spoke together, with one exception: she laughed as she tried to say my name. I got it. The stereotypical Herb was probably a computer programmer who taped his broken glasses together.
“My middle name is Herbert, Herb for short.” My explanation did nothing to stop her laughter.
I grabbed my coffee cup, ready to leave her and this place behind. I moved away from the counter and headed toward the door, feeling a tug on my jacket. I turned around and it was her, all sad green eyes and pouty lips. So much for taking a day off and escaping the crazy of this world; instead, I ran head-on into the leader of the nuthouse.
“I’m not laughing at your name, I swear. Though, I’d imagined a more Wall Street one like Maximus or Arthur. It’s our names together. Haven’t you heard of Peaches & Herb? The seventies disco duet.”
I blinked at her a few times.
“Shake your groove thing, shake your groove thing,” she sang, wiggling her hips as she imitated the words in a seductive Shakira fashion. Great. She had amazing moves. It wasn’t a guess where my mind went next.
Truth was, I remembered my mother playing this song one weekend when I was home from boarding school. She’d asked me how things were going with the girls. I’d told her I sucked at dancing. Coming to my rescue, she’d said I needed to find my “groove thing” and taught me how to dance to the song this wild girl was singing in public. I would expect this behavior closer to Broadway, not next to the stock exchange.
“I’ve heard of them.” Her face transformed from a frown to a bright smile.
“What are the chances we would meet like this?” Her eyes beamed up at me with stars in them.
Probably one in a trillion. Lucky me.
6
Maggie
Poor Herb’s face didn’t show the same excitement I felt about meeting in such a happenstance way. Like I literally fell into his arms, then looked up to see him staring back down at me. It had to be some kind of lover’s fate. Though, with his gruff, Eeyore-like demeanor, I couldn’t imagine him being moved by such romantic notions. And he worked on Wall Street, where money is earned and lost in a heartbeat. That kind of whirlwind would make a person tamp down their emotions. In his case, maybe all of them, including happiness.
“I’m sure this kind of thing happens everyday in New York. Like, tomorrow, someone named Ike will meet Tina in a midtown Starbucks, or maybe a Sonny will spill coffee on a Cher on the Upper East Side.”
Bad news. He didn’t even crack a slight smile at my joke.
“Listen, I haven’t taken a day off in years. I’m sure you’re a nice…” His eyes raked over me a couple times.
I held my breath, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he rubbed a hand over his delicious jaw and sighed. When he looked into my eyes again, I saw hesitation in his icy blues. I wondered when he’d last done something spontaneous and lived a little.
I had to play my cards right here. Because when does a drop-dead gorgeous man worthy of a Times Square billboard actually carry on a conversation with me? Never. I didn’t want our interaction to end, but I couldn’t come across as desperate to keep him talking to me either. Pretty sure that move would be a definite turn off.
Inspiration hit as I wondered about his upbringing. It had to be proper with the way he carried himself.
“Would you mind holding my bag?” I held my tote out to him, and he took it before answering my question.
Bingo. I found his weakness. He kept me from falling flat on my butt and took my bag without thought. His mother had taught him well. Deep down, under his wool and silk armor, he was a true gentleman.