Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I have less than an hour until Christian picks me up for his company’s holiday party, and in the process of trying on my two dress options, I’ve managed to get the zipper of one stuck.
In my underwear.
It’s one of those horrible women-living-alone moments that I always knew I was overdue for, but the timing could not be worse. If I were still in Manhattan, I was friendly enough with the female professor next door to me in campus housing to ask for the awkward favor, but here…
I try to tug at it but have no luck. The underwear I don’t mind ripping, but the dress had been blisteringly expensive, and I’ve been really looking forward to wearing it tonight.
I exhale and contemplate my options given how little time I have.
I come up with three.
Wait for Christian to get here, and embarrassingly ask him to free me.
Cancel.
It feels almost too unthinkable to name, and yet…
I pull on yoga pants under my skirt, fuzzy knee socks over the yoga pants, and then hurry downstairs to pull on my boots and parka. Opening the door, I shuffle down the pathway to my front gate, over to Archer’s, and then toward his front door.
It’s slow going, because New Jersey got its first sort-of snowfall last night. I say sort of because it was just a wet inch or two that has now turned mostly to slippery gray slush, but regardless, I really don’t want to add a wet ass or broken wrist to the night’s embarrassment.
“Please, please be home,” I mutter as I impatiently push Archer’s doorbell.
He opens it after a long while, his irritation turning to surprise when he sees me. “Randy. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, please. You come over to my house uninvited all the time,” I say, pushing him aside so I can step into his foyer.
“You got this dolled up to come snoop on my studio?” he asks, shutting the door.
“For the hundredth time, I don’t give a fig about your studio,” I say. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that nobody’s allowed in there.”
“So you’re here because…”
“I need a favor.” I cross my arms. “And you have to promise not to laugh.”
He shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”
I sigh. “Fine. But I’m not going to ask this favor standing in your freezing cold entryway.”
He nods toward the kitchen, and I follow him.
I’ve only been to Archer’s house a handful of times, mostly to borrow a screwdriver because I still can’t figure out where Lillian put hers, and once because I ran out of laundry detergent.
It’s homier than one would expect from someone as gruff as Archer, but masculine, too. The layout is the same as mine, but instead of Lillian’s floral wallpaper, Archer’s walls are painted a dark gray, almost black. All of the color comes from the varied artwork on the walls.
“None of these are your pieces,” I say, gesturing. I know next to nothing about art, but even though I’ve yet to see Archer’s work in person, I know enough to recognize that these aren’t his.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because my art is my work. I keep my work in the studio, the same way other people leave their filing cabinet in their office.”
I step into his kitchen, which is pleasingly modern. Lillian’s appliances haven’t been updated in years, and every surface is covered by a cookie jar or a collection of tea tins or a rooster made out of aqua blown glass. Archer’s kitchen—again, despite having the same layout—looks nothing like this. The oven-and-stove combo is sleek with copper finish, and the only thing on the counters is a single whiskey bottle, which I now recognize as his beloved rye.
“What made you buy this place? Or rent?” I ask, looking over.
“Bought.”
I’m dying to ask how, since he’s barely older than me, and I know from Lillian that the row of cottages is both in demand and extremely expensive real estate. But the question is just a little too rude, even for Archer’s particular blunt style of conversation.
“But you’re an artist, and Manhattan is like… well, Daphne says it’s an art-lovers mecca,” I press.
“Art lovers, yes. Artists? I’m sure for some people the city serves as an inspiration. For me it feels more… like a distraction. I like being close enough that I can get to a gallery when I need to, but mostly I like the quiet and solitude. Or what used to be quiet and solitude,” he adds, giving me a pointed look.
Feeling a little stung that he still feels that way, I look quickly away. I, too, felt like he’d intruded on my rooftop quiet and solitude the first day we’d met, but I haven’t felt that way in… a while. I didn’t realize he still did.
“Hey.” Archer comes around the counter so he’s on the same side as me. He leans back against it, crossing his arms and bending at the waist so his face is more at my level. “Randy.”