Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes and shake my head. I don’t even attempt to hide it. “I think your Very Good Feeling barometer is broken.”
“A mother knows,” she insists, unmoved by my rebuttal.
“Okay,” I say, drawing the word out to imply that I am in no way agreeing with her while my traitorous eyeballs drift back to Mister Don’t Fall in Love with Me. He’s just really wearing that suit and my eyes haven’t quite received the message from my brain that he’s not that into me.
“Hmm,” she hums, like she’s got the whole world figured out.
“Hmm,” I hum back, for any lack of a better rebuttal.
Mrs Bianchi laughs. “I really like you, Audrey.”
At least someone does.
Later, when we get back to Albany, Warren bypasses the driveway to the governor’s mansion, apparently intent on delivering me to my doorstep.
“I only live across the street. I could have just walked from your driveway,” I point out. Because seriously, it’s across the street and he’s clearly not trying to impress me.
“What a chivalrously low bar you have set, Audrey.”
“Chivalrous?” Wait. I turn a little in my seat, suddenly excited about this development. “Did you want to come inside and make out?”
Warren side-eyes me as he puts the car into park in front of my brownstone and opens his door. He leaves the car running so I guess that’s a no on the making out.
I really, really could have walked across the street myself if he’s not willing to put out. Also, I’m sort of annoyed that I shaved my legs for this. Sure, it was a long shot to think it was necessary but disappointing nonetheless. I sigh, unbuckling my seat belt as my car door opens. I think I might write an elaborate story in my diary as if tonight had ended in a torrid one-night stand. Then one day when I’m old and somewhat senile, rereading the entries of my youthful indiscretions, I might believe it actually happened. The idea mollifies me, to be honest.
Also, I’m taking his cake slice, which they sent home with us as party favors.
“Well, good night,” I offer as I hesitate on the sidewalk.
“Good night,” he returns, then adds, “Call a plumber,” with a smile and a nod towards my house.
“I will.”
And that’s it.
That’s the entirety of my date with Warren Russo.
“Wait!” I call out as he turns back to his car. Except why did I ask him to wait? I have no idea, except that I don’t really want him to go. Which is silly. Ridiculous. And, worst of all, irrelevant. He’s most definitely leaving.
“Yes?”
“How’d I do?” I blurt out. Ugh. That’s what I come up with to keep him standing outside my door? I’d slap myself in the face but my hands are full between my clutch and both slices of cake so I don’t have a free hand to assault myself with. “I just meant this is the first date I’ve been on in months, if you wanted to provide any feedback.”
Yeah. That clarification made it better. I’m definitely leaving this part out of my diary entry.
He smiles, one of the genuine ones that I already feel like belong to me. Then he laughs, and with a small shake of his head and a wave goodbye, gets back into his car.
Well.
Honestly, I’ve been on worse dates.
Chapter Eight
“I thought you were going to call a plumber.”
This is from Miller, who has just arrived after school, walked into my kitchen and slung his backpack onto a kitchen chair. He looks pointedly at the giant hole in my ceiling then back to me.
I’ve created the giant hole myself. I’m quite proud of it, truth be told.
“The thing is,” I begin, while nudging the stepladder over a couple of feet so I can continue my deconstruction project.
“What’s the thing?” I don’t miss the skepticism in his voice.
“The thing is, drywall is sort of optional, don’t you think?”
He stares at me with a dubious expression previously only directed my way by Gary. “No,” Miller says flatly, with a shake of his head, as if there’s no wiggle room on drywall, which is ridiculous.
“I could just tear this entire ceiling down and expose the floor joists and call it a loft vibe,” I explain. Being broke sparks creativity like nothing else. I mean, the term ‘starving artist’ came from somewhere. Probably not from a girl trying to repair her own plumbing, but it came from somewhere.
And yeah, it looks a little rough right now. A lot of exposed nails and plumbing. But it has potential. Surely.
“Pretty sure that’s not how that works.”
“But it could!”
“Okay.” Miller waves his hand at the ceiling while crossing over to check my fridge. “So you tear out the entire kitchen ceiling. That’s not going to fix the leak.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, Miller. First I have to locate the leak. And then look, I bought plumbers’ tape!” I hold up the roll triumphantly. This is gonna be so easy. Anyone can use tape. Even me. And it only cost me three bucks at the hardware store.