Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“Are you ready?” I ask Tuesday.
She nods, then turns to follow the host as she guides us to our table. It’s one I’ve sat at before on a date—a cozy corner where interruptions are fewer. I’m not sure how she’ll feel about the intimacy of it, but we’re about to find out.
I move behind her when she sits and tuck her in before moving to the other side of the table for two and taking my seat. When we’re alone, Tuesday leans forward with a genuine smile that makes me wish this were a date. The women I date don’t typically have stars in their eyes. It’s been a long time since someone looked at me as more than a means to an end, a layover in the city for one night, or like someone they might want to have a conversation with that doesn’t involve intercourse as the dessert course.
Tuesday is a breath of refresh in her enthusiasm. I won’t wax poetic about it since she’s suffering from amnesia. Everything is new to her and, by extension, more exciting. Even me.
She lays her napkin across her lap, and says, “I’m happy you texted.”
“You are?”
“I don’t know, but being alone all day wasn’t that fun.”
“I thought you’d be resting.”
“It was nice to be out of the hospital. I took a bath and ordered room service. I have to warn you. Don’t look at the bill.” She winks, the woman captivating me.
“Oh yeah? What will I find?” I glance around to make sure no one is listening and then lower my voice. “Porn?”
“What?” She draws attention from neighboring tables and recoils. “For the record, I don’t watch porn,” she adds, not worried about everyone in the restaurant overhearing. Struggling to maintain her composure, she starts laughing. “I was referring to the double order of fries. Wow, you slipped and rolled right into the gutter with that suggestion.”
“Apparently, it’s one of the top charges at hotels. Go figure.”
“I have nothing against it, but . . .” She scrunches her face. “Why are we talking about this again?”
“You mentioned the bill.”
“Ah. Right. Annnyway,” she says, her smile still shining under the restaurant's dim lighting. “I’m excited because I have no idea when I last ate pasta, but I’m so hungry for it right now.”
That was an impressive journey, detours and all. I chuckle. “I’m glad you’re here, and I can fulfill your pasta fantasies.”
“Pasta fantasies? You’re naughty, Mr. Westcott.” If she keeps calling me Mr. Westcott, she just might find out how naughty I can be. She goes on to say, “But truer words have never been spoken.” Sitting back in her chair, she gazes at the menu. “Now, what do I want?”
Although I’d chat aimlessly with her all night, I glance down, pretending to scan the menu because this is not a date. I already know what I’m ordering. It’s the same thing I order every time I’m here. “What looks good?” I ask.
When I look up, I find her eyes on me. Not even bothering to hide it, she asks, “What do you recommend?”
“The classics are always a safe bet at Italian restaurants.”
“Like you?” There are those stars again, shining bright. She’s trying to do me in, one sweet smile at a time. “A handsomely tailored suit, knows about etiquette, and oozes charm.”
“I didn’t know oozing could be charming.”
“Yet here you are, proving my point.” She laughs. “Tell me something, Loch.”
“Australia is wider than the moon.”
“Huh?” She giggles with a slight roll of her eyes. “No, I meant something else.”
“A hashtag is actually an octothorpe for the eight points.”
A pointed look doesn’t hold under her laughter. “Other than wanting to be on your team for trivia, why do you know that?”
“I enjoy reading.”
Her jaw slacks open, and her brows shoot toward the ceiling. “So do I.”
I love that she makes it sound like we’re the only two people in the world who like to read. It’s another connection to her that I won’t take for granted. “We should hit the bookstore together sometime.”
Relaxing her features, she replies, “I’d like that.”
I rest back, then ask, “What would you like to know?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you’d like to ask me something when we were talking about classic dishes—”
“Right. That was before you derailed the whole conversation,” she jokes. “Actually, teasing aside, I wanted to ask if you ever lose hope when the pressure feels like it’s too much to handle?” Her intense eyes make it seem as if she needs a lifeline right now. Her eyes dip closed, and she adds, “I’m not sure if anyone’s going to show up for me.”
“You don’t need to worry, Tuesday. I’ll be here for you as long as you need.” What am I doing? What am I saying? I’m not in a position to make her that promise, much less keep it.