Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
He places the menu down.
I laugh again when I read the one item written on it: steak and fries since I’ll be cooking, and I’m not much of a chef.
I grin up at him. Being with him goes beyond an emotional rollercoaster. This is like the whole freaking theme park.
“I’ll take your finest steak, sir.”
He smirks. “I’m sure your date will have the same.”
“Are you really going to cook for me?”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he says. “I want to cook for you.”
“How is it?” he asks while I’m still chewing my first bite of steak.
Despite everything, a smile lights me up. I’m beaming like the most naïve person ever, as though I didn’t just stop us from going all the way because I knew how bad it would ultimately end. I can’t help it. We’re back to forget-everything mode. His plan with the waiter’s outfit worked.
Swallowing, I say, “Delicious, but why do you look so nervous? That’s what I want to know.”
He smirks. “I’m more nervous cooking for you than any business meeting has ever made me.”
“I was going to say it seemed that way!”
He chuckles and cuts into his steak. “I want this to be special and mean something. I know it’s not much. You deserve holidays to Paris and Rome. You deserve Michelin-star restaurants. You deserve the world, Maci.”
A frown touches me. I focus on my food.
“Something’s wrong,” he says. It’s not a question.
“It’s just… Do you know what love bombing is?”
“It’s when a sociopath or a narcissist or somebody who’s just a plain old asshole says a bunch of untrue things to a woman to get her to fall for him or to get power over her. Do you think that’s what I’m doing?”
“No, I don’t. That’s the crazy part, but stuff like that, most people would.”
“The difference is, I mean it,” he snaps. “As soon as I walked into that home-away-from-home and saw you, I wanted all those things. I wanted something special with you. I wanted, hell, I wanted, and that was enough of a change to make me stop and double-take. It’s been a long time since I wanted anything that wasn’t business-related.”
He pauses, his eyes fixed on me in that perfect way of his. It’s not just the chandelier, the rose petals, the privacy. His eyes and attention make me believe in him; in this moment, nothing else exists.
“Now my business is going through hell. My partner is AWOL, and I’d still rather be here with you. If it wasn’t for Kayla…”
“What?” I urge when he trails off.
He sighs and cuts into his steak. Taking the hint, I do the same, waiting for him to go on. I sense he needs some space. He’s got the same unsure exterior that gripped him when we were in the car, and he told me about his dad’s schemes.
“I’d ask a childish question,” he finally says. “If it weren’t for Kayla, I’d say,” he smirks, “be my girlfriend, Maci.”
I smile, though I’m sure, just like him, there’s a sad quality to it. “If it weren’t for Kay, I’d say hell to the yes.”
“I guess that makes you my maybe-girlfriend, then.”
Reaching across the table, I touch his hand. “And that makes you my maybe-boyfriend.”
Neither of us mentions what the maybe refers to because it would simply be too painful. If we talked about the fact that the maybe refers to the idea of Kayla somehow being okay with this and supporting our decision to go behind her back and betray her, then this make-believe world we’re living in would pop like a lust-filled bubble on the surface of an indoor pool.
“How’s college?” he asks after a pause.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Except, well, I wonder if I picked the wrong major. So I guess not okay,” I shrug.
“You don’t like graphic design?” he asks.
“I like drawing,” I tell him. “I like illustrating. I like painting. I like abstract art. I like portraits. I like all kinds of art, honestly. I like photography. I think I like too much. Mom said I should narrow my focus. At the time, I agreed, but the more I do, the less I care about it.”
“What about your graphic novel?” he says with genuine interest.
“I loved that,” I tell him.
“Loved, as in past tense?”
“I think I still would. I just haven’t worked on it since…” I give him a look. “It’s been difficult to focus.”
He nods. “Believe me, I understand. Remember all my fancy talk about mental models and units and concentration? I’m starting to think that was all crap, honestly. It seemed easy because I didn’t have my maybe-girlfriend in my head twenty-four-seven, distracting me.”
“Yeah, my maybe-boyfriend has been making it difficult, too.”
After a pause, he says, “If you don’t think your course is worthwhile, you should quit.”
I gasp. “I can’t do that. Mom’s already paid two years’ tuition. That was Dad’s money. He worked hard, writing from sunrise to sunset sometimes. I’d sit in his office with him, reading a book or drawing. We wouldn’t talk much, but it was nice and comfortable. I felt we bonded more in that silence than anywhere else.” I bite down. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to unload.”