Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Homeless,” he mutters, looking out the window. “Jesus.”
“Water under the bridge,” I say, patting his leg in a sisterly gesture to prove my point about the lack of zip between us, even as my palm registers his leg is appealingly firm.
“And I accept your gentlemanly dinner invitation,” I add, because I’m more aware by the minute how hungry I am. “Where are we going? What’s at Greenwich and Christopher where they only serve Guinness and soda bread?”
“Yes, because that’s all we Irish bumpkins eat.”
“And potatoes. Don’t forget potatoes.”
He turns his head back toward me, the city lights casting shadows across his face. “Back then?”
“What?” I ask, not following.
“You said we weren’t exactly setting off sparks back then. Interesting distinction.”
My stomach drops at the intensity of his gaze, but I try to play it off. “You know what I meant. Just that back then, we couldn’t stand each other, and my parents knew it. Just like they know we can’t stand each other now, no matter how much my mom might dream of her baby girl marrying her surrogate son. I didn’t mean that we were setting off sparks now …”
I’m babbling, and true to form, he says nothing in response. And because I’m realizing this man won’t come out of his shell on his own, I decide to nudge him. “Are we?”
It’s his turn to look confused, and I’m pleased to have thrown him off-balance for once. “What?”
“Are we setting off sparks? Do I set you all aflame?” I say, giving him my best Jessica Rabbit look, which, honestly, isn’t all that good.
“No,” he says curtly.
And though I can’t say for sure given the darkness inside the back of the cab, I could have sworn his gaze lingered on the hem of my dress as he says it.
Chapter 14
Friday, September 4
“Oh my God,” I say, pushing my plate aside and exhaling with the sheer pleasure of a perfect meal. “I think that was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Better than the boiled potatoes you were expecting?” Colin asks over the top of his red wine glass.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love a good shot of Jameson and shepherd’s pie on St. Paddy’s day,” I tell him. “But no cuisine can compete with pasta.”
“I wouldn’t know. You ate most of mine.”
“We agreed to split them.”
“No, you ‘suggested,’ we split them, didn’t take no for an answer, and then ate the lion’s share of each.”
“An exaggeration,” I retort.
Well, sort of an exaggeration. My pesto was one of the better things I’d ever put in my mouth, but his short rib ravioli gave it a definite run for its money.
“So,” he says, topping off both of our glasses from the bottle of Barolo he ordered for us to split. “How was your reunion with your first love?”
“The pasta?”
He surprises me with a grunt of a laugh. “No. Drew.”
“Oh, right,” I say, sipping the wine. “It was good to see him. Did you know he’s divorced now? That always makes me sad when people our age are divorced already. How does that happen?”
I wince when my brain catches up to my words. “I guess I’ll be joining the ranks in a couple of months, won’t I?”
Colin studies me. “Silver lining. Our divorce will free you up to rekindle things with Drew.”
Huh. The idea excites me not at all. Not that there’s anything wrong with Drew, but the truth is I haven’t put that much thought into what happens after this thing with Colin and I wraps up. I’ve avoided thinking about it, if I’m honest. Lately I’ve been feeling sort of itchy about my life in general, and for now, it’s been easier just to leave my future as one big question mark.
“I don’t think so,” I say aloud.
“Why not?”
I give an irritated huff that he’s pushing this. “I don’t know. No spark, I guess.”
Yes, Drew looked great. Yeah, he’d been funny and nice, and charming, and I have nothing but good memories of our time together. But whatever physical chemistry we’d once had is long gone, at least on my side.
“Plus,” I admit, “I guess in my head, I’m not really available.”
He shifts, looking uncomfortable with the train of conversation. “You mean because of our arrangement?”
“I guess. I mean, I know our situation is anything but typical, but it was easier to forget that I was technically married when I was in California. Here, everyone knows I’m married. Everyone knows you. And what’s really throwing me off is that some of these people seem to think we’re really, truly married.”
He gives me a sharp look. “What do you mean?”
“I spent nearly three hours today making small talk with some of the city’s biggest gossips. Were you aware that people think we’ve actually been married for real, and that we just have some really weird modern relationship where we only see each other on weekends?”