Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I like this bubble.
But sun streams through the window, casting brighter rays across my home, a reminder that the day is passing by.
I don’t want to delay the inevitable. So I gird myself, asking, “Do you have to go? Now that you have clothes again?”
“That’s a good question,” he says, deep in thought.
Setting my coffee down on the table, I turn to him, curious. “Why is it a good question?”
He runs a hand down my arm, purposefully, but also easily. Like this is just a thing we do. Hang together on my couch, drinking coffee, touching freely as the day unfolds. “Do you have any plans for today?”
“Not really. I’ll probably see my friends or go for a bike ride or go to The Frick,” I say, automatically before the weight of his question registers on the scale.
Oh.
He’s not asking what I’m doing simply to make conversation.
“Do you want to get out of New York with me? For the day?” he asks.
Sounds like a dream. “Yes. I do.”
“We can do that, don’t you think?”
I understand everything he’s asking. “I think so,” I say, giddy already from the possibility. “We’re still working on that Afternoon Delight thing.”
There you go. We have our cover story—not that we’ll likely need it. Escaping from New York means escaping from the tight quarters of the sardine city, from the probability of bumping into someone we know on the subway, in the park, on the street.
“Let’s go to Wistful. It’s not far from here. I’ll call my car service.” He takes another drink of his coffee, checks his watch. “Can you be ready in an hour?”
My heart flies to the moon. “Yes.”
A little later, we step out of the car and onto the quaint, quiet stretch of Main Street in the little Connecticut seaside town, so far away from everything and everyone in New York.
I feel like I’ve stepped into a story, especially when Bridger sets a hand on my back and keeps it there as we wander down the streets.
Together, for the first time.
We pass a hardware store, a shop peddling vintage signs and garden gnomes, then I stop in front of Various and Sundry when the window display catches my attention.
An umbrella—clear, with a map of the world on it. “You need an umbrella, tiger.”
“I thought you liked my emerged-from-the-lake-like-a-Jane-Austen-hero look,” he deadpans as I push open the door, the bell tinkling above me.
“That’s true. I did. But what if you get stuck in the rain before an important meeting? Like, with David Fontaine,” I suggest as we head toward the umbrellas, blue with polka dots, gray with cartoon dogs, red with music notes.
A woman behind the counter looks up from behind cat-eye glasses. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”
“I will,” I say, then beeline for the rain gear. “So you’d rather show up to a meeting soaked than carry an umbrella?”
Bridger pretends to consider this, then nods. “I would.”
I roll my eyes. “You really don’t want to carry an umbrella?”
“I don’t. I don’t want to lug a bunch of things around. Too much to carry in New York already. You need to be nimble in the city,” he says, then he moves deliciously closer, his nose near my neck. “Besides, you don’t carry one either.”
“Touché,” I say, feeling a little fluttery, a little tingly with him next to me.
A little distracted too from my mission.
But I shake off the fizz of desire, spin around, and search through the store till I spot a simple dove-gray notebook. Small, nearly pocket-size. I grab it and a pen, then head for the counter and buy them.
Once we’re outside, Bridger gives me a quizzical look, clearly waiting for me to explain the purchase.
I don’t indulge him yet.
Spotting a bench along the sidewalk, I head to it, sit down, and flip open the cover. He sits next to me, curious eyes on me the whole time as I write.
Closing it, I hand him the notebook and the pen. “It’s a gift.”
My stomach cartwheels. Nerves spin through me. I’ve never given him a gift before. I hope he likes it. “So you can think of me when you’re in the office this week,” I add.
“I would anyway,” he says, then, with the hint of a smile, he opens the notebook.
Heart beating in my throat, I watch as he reads the words.
Find me in the rain.
When he closes it, his eyes glimmer darkly, deeply. “I will, Harlow. I will.”
He moves closer to me, and it’s like we’re poised, riding the possibility of a public kiss on the streets of a small town.
Far, far away from our New York life.
He stays there.
And it’s enough for me.
Later, we stop in a jewelry boutique at the edge of the town square. It reminds me of my cousin’s store in San Francisco. As we amble past a display of necklaces, Bridger stops, stares at me, his gaze drifting down to my neck. “I’ve never asked what this is for?”