Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Same doorman.
Same hostess.
“Chandler Westbrooke?”
I nod.
“Right this way please.”
She’s leading me to the bar, the room quiet but not completely devoid of customers; an older couple is enjoying cocktails at the long counter, and a gentleman with his back to me sits at one of the high-top tables.
I do not see my cousin anywhere.
Confused that the hostess recognized me, I consider going to check the dining room; surely she’s mistaken. We’re here for dinner, not drinks, and Hollis hasn’t arrived yet.
My stomach growls.
If the hostess will seat me, I can order a bread basket and maybe some appetizers, or even—
“Chandler.”
Tripp is rising from the high-top, all six foot three of him, and I stare, dumbfounded. Give my head a little shake.
“My cousin isn’t coming, is she? This was a setup.”
“Guilty.” He holds his hands out. “I didn’t think you’d see me otherwise.”
I didn’t think he wanted to, considering he hasn’t even tried to contact me. No texts, no phone calls. No flowers.
A bouquet I hadn’t noticed rests on the tabletop.
Okay, I will admit, the flowers are a nice touch.
A little bit of the ice that formed when he hurt me thaws.
“I guess you’ll never know since you didn’t reach out.” I say it because he needs to know staying silent is no way to work through a misunderstanding.
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Alright. I’ll remember that.”
I hope he writes that shit down because I have no interest in teaching a grown man how to be in a relationship.
Slow down, speedy—you don’t know why he brought you here.
I sit, setting my purse on the table next to the bouquet.
“Those are for you.”
They’re beautiful—look hand cut, and specifically selected by someone, for me. Wildflowers wrapped in brown paper, mixed with roses, greenery…with snapdragons and hydrangeas. It’s huge, colorful, and smells gorgeous.
“Thank you, I love them.”
The server comes and I order an iced tea and a few things to nibble on since it’s close to dinner time.
“So. Molly sent me. She wanted me to give you this.” Tripp pulls out a white envelope and hands it across the table.
I smile, knowing whatever she’s written is going to be good, and tear open the seal without pause.
I’m not wrong.
Hey Chandler,
If you’re reading this, it’s because Tripp finally got his head out of his butt and tricked you into meeting him so he can grovel. I’ve given him some pro tips, but I don’t trust him on his own. The dude is a hot mess. Like, way worse than the guys my age—but like, the thing you should know (because I’ve been hanging out at his place with Chewy even though he HATES IT) is if he DIDN’T like you, he wouldn’t spend time with you. He’d be doing all the lame things he used to do before he met you, like spraying off his driveway every weekend, riding around the subdivision in his golf cart, and trimming bushes like he’s some kind of landscape architect (rolling my eyes). He is so. Old. (No offense.)
Anyway, I’m not saying you should date a man who’s a total project, but he has some things he needs to work on. Still, the bones are good and he has potential—so like, be patient (but not too patient) and give him a second chance because we both know guys are idiots but also highly trainable.
I’ll be waiting for an update and hope to see you parked in the driveway soon—the dude is pathetic when he’s moping. No offense.
Xx Molly from next door
I fold the letter, grin on my face as I tuck it into my purse.
No offense.
What a little turd.
I try to remember what I was like as a teenager but can honestly say I wasn’t nearly as mature as Molly—never in a million years would I have written a woman a letter giving her relationship advice. What a ballsy young lady.
She will be formidable when she’s grown, of that I’m certain.
“What does it say?”
“Oh, where to begin.” I chuckle, studying his face. He looks tired—as if he hasn’t slept since Saturday night. And maybe he hasn’t; it seems he has a lot on his mind—thoughts I’d love to hear. “At least she likes you—I can’t imagine what she would be like if she didn’t.”
“She wouldn’t come around.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
He considers the question. “Honestly, I’m kind of getting used to the little shit. Molly has actually helped me see things more clearly.”
Oh? This interests me and I lean closer, resting my elbows on the tabletop. “What kind of things?”
Tripp laughs. “First tell me what was in the letter.”
I lean back, arching one of my eyebrows and crossing my arms. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
He breathes out a puff of air. “Okay fine, you’re right.” Pauses. “I realized I’m used to bottling everything up inside and only considering myself—which is the reason I invited you to The Ivy the first time, to make myself look good and feel better. Which is bullshit. You deserve better and I’m sorry.”