Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
I shrug it off, but my shoulders feel too tight, the memory of John clinging like a limpet.
“He likes you,” she says, nodding almost to herself.
My skin flushes. “I don’t see how you’ve come to that conclusion.”
“Can’t you?” she counters softly.
And damn it, I want to crawl into a hole and hide. Because I had thought John liked me. I’d honestly started to believe that there was something between us. But he ran out and left me without looking back. I don’t know what to think anymore.
Then don’t. Forget him and move on.
“At any rate, I’m just passing through and he’s … well, him. Rock star. Legend. All that …” I wave a helpless hand. “I’m much more suited for nice, normal guys.”
Why am I babbling? I don’t know this woman. I don’t want to talk about John—Jax. Worse, she’s looking at me as though she sees right into my head. An awkward pause fills the space before she sets her mail in her Birkin bag and then straightens.
“I’ve lived a long while,” she says thoughtfully, “and what I’ve learned is there are people who never make mistakes. They never put their foot in it, always act perfectly. My dear, I don’t trust those people an inch.”
A shocked laugh escapes me. “Because they’re nice?”
“Because no one who lives honestly is perfect all the time. Those perfect people? They’re often living a lie. A tidy public persona to hide behind.” Her dark eyes glint. “Ever notice on the news, they’ll interview the neighbors of some deranged serial killer, and they’re always insisting he was such a nice, normal man. Ha. Norman Bates wouldn’t hurt a fly, right?”
Her droll tone makes me laugh. “Well, you have me there.”
“There is no such thing as perfect. Human beings make mistakes. Humans who feel greatly often make the biggest ones. It’s the intent that counts. Is it a mistake based on hate, selfishness, or moral cowardice? Give them no quarter. But an honest mistake backed by a true heart is another matter entirely.”
The bones of her wrist stand out sharply against her thin skin as she reaches for the elevator call button. “My husband—God rest his soul—and I were married for forty years. We both had to learn that lesson the hard way. Forgive the small blunders. Don’t lose out on something due to pride.”
She gives a little sniff, and I can’t help but think she’s putting it on a bit thick.
“Forgive me for saying, Mrs. Goldman, but do you often play matchmaker?”
She freezes and shoots me a repressive glare. But then a slow smile spreads over her face. “I am notorious for it.”
“You’re very good,” I offer, holding in my own smile.
“Yes, I am.” Her expression softens. “He’s lonely, Ms. Grey. Though he’d never admit it to me. And he is one of the best men I have had the pleasure to meet.”
Any humor I felt bleeds away, leaving my chest sore. “I think we both might be a little too screwed up to connect right now.”
The elevator dings as she softly snorts. “We’re all screwed up. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You coming?”
“No.” I take a step back. “I’m going flying.”
“You fly planes?” Her eyes light up. “How marvelous.”
“Small ones.” Big planes are boring, frankly. I might as well be driving a city bus with wings. Hank calls me a snob about that, so I’ve learned to hold my tongue. Besides, I don’t particularly like talking to people about my hobby; it’s too exposing and leads to the inevitable questions: How long have I been flying? What got me into it?
Already, I’m regretting opening my mouth, and find myself edging toward the door. “It isn’t easy getting out to Long Island, but I try to go when I can.”
Mrs. Goldman gives me a kind smile. Too kind, which means I hadn’t done a good job at hiding my discomfort. Usually, I’m an expert at pretending I’m at ease.
“I won’t keep you, then,” she says. “Happy flying. You should take a jacket, though. Spring weather is temperamental.”
I’m already halfway out the door, not wanting to hear any more of Mrs. Goldman’s grandmotherly advice.
John
* * *
“I’m in over my head.”
Scottie glances my way before going back to studying the row of options in front of him. “What was your first clue?” His brow furrows. “Though, if I am honest, I haven’t a bloody clue either. Do I go for comfort or ease of portability? And how the hell does this pram close?”
He makes a furtive flick of a handle as I bite back a snort. “I’m not talking about the damn strollers.”
In truth, I have no idea why we’re the ones shopping for a stroller. Two more clueless dudes you couldn’t find.
Scottie crouches down beside a black and silver model that looks more like a space pod to me. “Well, I am. The last one Sophie bought had a shit turning radius and the handles were too low for me. Got a crick in my back maneuvering that nightmare around.”