Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Not for me, I’m driving,” I said, although I wished I could have a third beer, or maybe a shot of whiskey—anything to numb her effects on me. “I’ll take a cup of coffee though.”
“Sounds good. And for you?” the server asked Cheyenne.
Cheyenne bit her lip. “I probably shouldn’t. I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“Oh, go ahead,” I said, nudging her foot beneath the table. “It’s my treat.”
“Cole, no—you are not paying for all this.”
“She’ll have one more,” I told the server, whose name tag said Lara. She looked vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her.
“Great! And would you like to see the dessert menu?”
I looked across the table. “Would you?”
She sighed. “Of course I would. But considering the amount of pasta I just ate and the number of calories I’m going to consume tomorrow, I’m going to say no.”
I looked up at Lara. “We’re all set. Just the coffee and wine, and then the bill.”
When we were alone again, Cheyenne reached forward and put her hand over mine. “You do not have to treat me, Cole.”
“Quiet,” I told her gruffly. “I asked you to dinner, so I’m paying for it.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it, even if you did give me made-up advice.” She left her hand on mine as she smiled. “This is actually the best night out I’ve had in a really long time.”
“Yeah?” It made me happy to hear it.
She nodded, her gorgeous lips curving into a smile. “When you spend all your days with a bunch of five and six-year-olds, and all your evenings with a meddlesome mother, you forget how nice it can be to spend time alone with someone closer to your own age.”
I looked down at our hands. My wedding band peeked through our fingers. “It is nice. I haven’t been out like this in a long time either.”
“Then we should do it again sometime. And I’ll treat.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I heard myself saying, even though making a habit of having dinner out with her sounded suspiciously like dating.
But she was right—it was nice to spend time alone with someone your own age. I loved Mariah to the moon and back, and I had the greatest group of guy friends on the fucking planet, but this was different. I’d forgotten how good it could feel to sit across from someone pretty and talk quietly and make her laugh and admire the way the candlelight on the table put those warm, golden flecks in her eyes.
Except that I knew what she was waiting for, and I couldn’t give it to her.
The snow had continued to fall while we were at dinner, and a couple more inches had accumulated. Cheyenne was delighted, tossing handfuls of it over our heads as we made our way to my car.
“Are you drunk?” I teased, worried she was going to slip in those high-heeled boots she was wearing.
“Yes. Which is your fault.” She tipped her head back and opened her mouth to catch snowflakes on her tongue. A second later, she stumbled over an uneven sidewalk slab, and I instinctively reached for her.
“Jeez, I can’t take you anywhere, Miss Dempsey,” I scolded, holding her by the elbow as we walked down the street.
She giggled again. “You sound like my students. Did I tell you one of them asked me the other day why I wasn’t called Mrs. Dempsey?”
“No. What did you say?”
“I said it was because I’m not married. Then the kid asked why I wasn’t married, and the girl next to him elbowed him and said, ‘You shouldn’t ask her that. It will make her feel old.’ And the kid goes, ‘She is old.’”
“Little shit,” I said.
“Oh, it gets better. The girl tried to defend me.”
“Yeah?” We reached my SUV, and I unlocked the passenger door.
“Yeah.” She hiccupped before going on. “She said, ‘I know she’s old, but she’s still pretty . . . for an old lady.’”
I laughed as I opened the door for her. “Get in, Miss Dempsey. Or should I call you Miss Tipsy?”
She climbed in, but leaned over and poked my chest. “Jerk.”
Grinning, I walked around to the driver’s side and got in. “Well, she was right,” I said, starting the engine and turning up the heat. “You’re very pretty for an old lady.”
She batted her lashes at me and hiccupped. “Why, thank you. And you’re quite attractive for an old man.”
“There are definitely days when I feel like an old man,” I admitted as I started the drive home. “And then there are days I feel exactly like I did at eighteen.”
“Believe me, I hear you.”
I drove in silence for a few minutes, one hand rubbing over the stubble on my jaw, wondering what eighteen-year-old me—or even thirty-three-year-old me—would have done with a tipsy, flirty Cheyenne Dempsey on a night like tonight, if my life had taken a different path.