Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I hold her door for her again before walking around the car and getting in at the driver’s side.
Driving down the street while she gives me excellent directions, I miss my cars. I flew into St. Louis and rented a sedan because they didn’t exactly have imported sports cars on their list of choices. I’m debating about flying back to LA, getting one of my cars, and driving it back here just so I have it. I could buy another, but there are ones I love driving because they’re mine. I don’t want something new. Rather, I want something familiar because I get used to the way a car handles. How it hugs the road, how it accelerates—that kind of thing. That’s what I miss.
Also, having a real home. The hotel thing, after just a few days, is already getting old. “I have to find a house,” I blurt. “Soon. I can’t stand the hotel anymore. Any recommendations in the area?”
Emily snorts. “Yeah. Right.” She doesn’t look at me as she keeps focused on the traffic ahead. Not fearfully like I might plow into someone but in an interested—I’m giving you directions so I can’t tear my eyes away because if I mess up, it’s going to be humiliating—kind of way. “I wouldn’t know what any of the neighborhoods in your price range are like. I’ve never even driven through them as most of them are gated communities. I would suggest an online search. Just type an amount in the price bracket with six zeroes behind it. That should do it.”
“Just because I have money doesn’t mean I want to live in a mansion.”
She does look at me now, totally shocked. “I just assumed you’d want to live in something, erm, comfortable for you.”
That basically translates into her hinting how she knows what my house looks like in LA because there’s this thing called the internet, and anyone can find out that kind of information. She probably also knows what my penthouse looks like in New York, what my flat looks like in London, Paris, our family vacation house in Milan, and so on.
“I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”
“No!” Panic tightens her features. “If someone happened to be spying on us, that would give off the worst impression. Like we’re thinking about moving in together after just meeting each other. That would be the story of the year.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you dare say you’d just shrug and smile, and everything would be alright. Some of us, meaning me, aren’t used to living a public life. It’s bad enough I had to call my parents, brothers, and closest friends and explain to them that the article wasn’t what it looked like.”
“How did that go?”
Her forehead creases and she gives me a look that says she doesn’t want to talk about it. I shut it and let her give me the last couple of directions to the park. It’s tiny and surrounded by a sea of average houses, with a play structure on one end and a few towering trees on the other. Clearly, it’s been here for some time, based on the estimated age of those trees.
“Well, this is it. Probably not the kind you’re used to, but then again, I’m sure nothing about this place is.”
I somehow get the idea that Emily isn’t talking about the park, the houses, or anything to do with the city. She’s subtly talking about herself because she knows what kind of women I dated in the past, which is also searchable on the internet.
Growing up in a famous family, I just got used to constantly having a life that people could search up, comment on, and pick apart if they chose. That was just how it went. It’s very hard to carve out a private bubble for yourself when you live in the public eye. I got used to living that way since I’ve done it from birth. This is truly the first time it all cuts straight down to a hollow pit inside me that I didn’t even really know was there.
I want to say something sweet and profound, like tell Emily she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, which she is, tell her she’s brilliant, because of course, she is, tell her she’s entirely captivating, unexpected, funny, tough, that she’s completely unique, which is perfect since no one has the courage to live that way, and all that I know from just the past few days I’ve spent with her, but she jumps out of the car and slams the door in my face before I can get a word out.
I get out more slowly. My stomach hurts, and it’s not from the tacos. My chest hurts, too, in an unfamiliar way.
I catch up to Emily, but my tongue is still glued to the inside of my mouth. The words churning through me are far worse than the gas pains I struggled with during the movie, and well, believe me, gas pains are nothing to scoff at. Especially when they threaten to let loose with a big rip in front of a packed theater. The action and suspenseful music would not have covered up the sound.