Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
“Make sure to visit one of our museums. Train World is my favorite.”
“Train World?”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “It’s less pretentious than the art museums.”
We continued our lunch, him sharing his favorite spots with me. I got the feeling he was lonely. He’d come to the right table if that was the case. My mother was always harping on me about settling down. It was hard to settle when you were always on the move. Even when I’d had time for relationships, I’d failed miserably. Marriage and that stuff wasn’t for everyone—at least that’s what I told myself. It helped ease the disappointment.
“It was lovely sharing lunch with you, young lady. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”
I watched as he talked with a waitress before he stepped onto the sidewalk and out of view. I had to admit, it was nice spending time with someone else. Reminded of my mother’s text, I checked my phone again, only to find it was on 2%. She would have to wait just a bit longer for a return call.
“Are you finished, miss?” the waitress asked, motioning to my plate.
“Yes. Thank you.”
I handed her what was left of my lunch, but before she turned away, a thought struck me. “Ma’am? Do you know where the Train Museum is?”
I had to give it to Simon. The Train Museum was well worth the trip. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon soaking in the history of Belgium’s railway system. It was fascinating, and I wasn’t just saying that because it was better than the conference, even though it was. Back at the hotel, I dropped my bags on the bed and plugged in my phone. Immediately, alerts echoed through the room. I wondered how many of them were actually important. The number was most likely in single digits. Picking the phone up while it charged, I growled. My mother hadn’t texted back, but my boss had called and left an email.
Why did you leave the conference early?
Of course he knew. Wonderful. I responded quickly, letting him know I had things to do and that I wasn’t needed. I was sure he would think differently, but I wasn’t sure that I cared anymore. My current role was boring. I missed the excitement of the press corps, covering the war overseas. That was supposed to be the jumping-off point for me. Able to pick my own stories, focus on what truly interested me. Not reporting on a bunch of self-important political leaders and their opinions on everything except for what really mattered. I stared at my response, waiting for him to come back with something condescending, anything to push me over the edge. I considered checking out and flying home, developing my letter of resignation on the plane. Maybe that would force me to get off my butt and go after my dreams.
The phone rang, sounding slightly ominous. I stared at it, my heart racing. Flipping it over, I was relieved to see it was my mother. Apparently, I’d kept her waiting long enough.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry I haven’t called yet. My phone died.”
“I assumed it was something like that. How is Brussels?”
“Actually, wonderful. I had a lovely lunch with an older gentleman and then visited the Train Museum.”
“An older gentleman? Like viable dating material older or grandpa older.”
“Mother!”
I sighed, dropping to the bed.
“You can’t blame me for asking. I’m sure Mother’s Day or my birthday is right around the corner. It would be the best gift, you know. And inexpensive to boot.”
Her teasing laugh earned her rolled eyes. Not that she could see them. I was lucky enough to have a close bond with both my mother and father. I knew not everyone was so fortunate. It made the teasing a tad less annoying.
“You are shameless. He was much older and very sweet. Now, what was your big news?”
“Oh, yes! I nearly forgot. Ashford has a new citizen, and he’s famous.”
“Famous for Ashford’s standards or really famous?”
“Now who’s being funny? Truly famous. He’s a writer.”
My ears perked up on that one. Really? “Who is it?”
“See, you’re interested now. His name is Landon Adams. He hasn’t written anything in years, but when he was on his game, he was magical. He is one of my favorite authors… after you, of course.”
“Mother, that’s sweet, but I’m not an author. I’m a reporter—there’s a difference.”
“Well, maybe you could write a report on Landon and why he’s hiding out in our tiny town. Or why he hasn’t written anything in a decade. I, for one, would like to know.”
“Can’t you just ask him?”
“Tara Foley. You don’t pry into someone’s private life. That would be rude.”
I could picture her, hand on her hips, shaking her head because she’d taught me better. It was a fair question, wasn’t it?
“But it’s okay for me to ask?”
“Yes, it is your job, after all. Isn’t that what you just told me?”