Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
I pull out my phone, just for an excuse to keep my head down. I can’t see anything with my glasses on, but no one needs to know that.
As I take the phone out of my hoodie pocket, it’s like it’s alive—practically launching itself out of my hand and onto the floor at the feet of Ralph Lauren man. We both crouch down and he gets to my phone first. I try not to look at him as he hands it over, but I can feel his stare boring into me as if it’s searching for something. I can’t avoid glancing at his hand as he passes me my phone. It’s large with a tan that suggests he’s spent the entire summer outside.
“Thanks,” I say and then I mentally chastise myself for not using the British accent. But it was just a syllable, right? How different can one syllable be in the same language.
“My pleasure,” he replies as we both stand, me pointedly not looking at him. “What part of the States are you from?”
Apparently a syllable can give far too much away about a person.
“New York,” I snap—just like a New Yorker not interested in the guy talking to me would. I look down at my phone, trying not to wince at how rude I just was. I’m just really not interested in having a conversation. Especially with an attractive man. Or any kind of man. Yesterday, I looked up whether there is such a thing as an all-female commune I can escape to. For now, London and a snappish attitude will have to do.
“Love New York,” he says, ignoring my not-so-subtle signs to stop talking. In New York, I could have sung the entire soundtrack of Dirty Dancing—my favorite movie soundtrack—and the guy in front wouldn’t have flinched. But not in London. I thought the Brits were meant to be uptight. The line moves and we all step forward. “You go ahead of me. You look like you’re in a hurry.”
Urgh. If I say no, he’ll insist and we’ll end up having more of an interaction than I want.
“Thanks,” I say and step forward. There’s only one person in front now. I need to get out of here before anyone else tries to speak to me.
Another cashier arrives at the counter, which means me and Mr. Ralph Lauren end up ordering at the same time. I can see the cashier grinning up at him as I order my flat white, and she breaks out into a loud laugh at something he says. I haven’t seen his face, but Becky—whose name is on her badge—is obviously quite smitten with him. Maybe he’s a regular. I pay and move to the pick-up station, happy that none of the staff have taken any notice of me at all. This outing would be perfect if I hadn’t dropped my phone.
Of course, my new friend follows me because he’s waiting for his drink too.
“I’m Beau,” he says as he stands next to me.
I’m fake-engrossed in my phone, but I nod like I’ve heard what he said. But I don’t offer my name in return.
He’s not deterred. “What’s your name?”
I sigh. Why won’t this guy leave me alone? There are plenty of women in London to hit on. “Adele,” I say. It’s the fake name I usually use when checking into hotels—a little joke I have with myself, since my last album outsold her last album in its first week. Of course, I love Adele. Everyone loves Adele. That doesn’t mean we don’t have a friendly rivalry. But we’re adults. It’s not about to turn into a Katy-Taylor situation.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adele,” he says. Before he can ask any more questions, Adele’s name is called and I step forward to take my coffee. I don’t even say bye to Mr. Ralph Lauren, just scuttle out of the store and head back to the house.
I got my own coffee and no one realized who I was. I’m calling it a win.
THREE
Beau
Not many people have a real understanding of how lucky they are to be alive. I’m not one of those people. And as long as I’m alive, I need coffee every morning.
I head toward Coffee Confidential and spot the woman who was in there yesterday—Adele. She’s a New Yorker and not much into chitchat. “Hey!” I say as we both reach the door at the same time.
“Hi,” she replies as I hold the door open, trying not to smart as my shoulder burns. She doesn’t so much as give me a smile. She was a little frosty yesterday, too.
If I’d let getting rejected by Coral and then falling off a three-thousand-foot glacier get to me, I’d be just as frosty back. But I’m not that guy. Lucky for me, I only fell twenty feet and, even luckier, I only dislocated my shoulder. The cherry on the cake is that Coral didn’t check in to make sure I was alive. There’s absolutely no ambiguity in regards to our relationship anymore.