Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I say, then I add Jules and Camden. I trust them too. I head upstairs, sadness still trailing me as I think about Nick’s afternoon. He didn’t give me details. He only said it didn’t go well.
I wish there were something I could do. But at least I can feed him.
When I’m inside my home, I set the food on the counter. My phone rings.
“Hey. I’m here,” he says, sounding a little hollow. “Heading into your building.”
“You’re on the list,” I add, but I don’t try to force too much cheer into my tone. He’s going to feel what he’s going to feel, and I can’t change it with chipperness.
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “But I’ll probably still call you first anyway.”
He doesn’t say the next time I come over, but I hear it anyway, and I like it. “Fair enough.”
A few minutes later, I unlock the door and let him in. His warm hazel eyes are so tired. His smile is half-hearted.
“Hey,” I say gently.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, but it’s like he’s trying to stay upbeat.
He shuts the door behind him, and immediately I rope my arms around his neck and bring him in for a hug.
He murmurs against me, accepting my embrace, his big arms wrapping around my waist. I hold him like that for a while as the food grows colder, and the city turns darker.
When I let go, I point to the purple couch. “I don’t have a table, but you need to sit and eat.”
“Okay,” he says, and he’s thoroughly downbeat. This is not the Nick I’m used to. But this is what I signed up for. All of him.
He heads to the couch, flops onto it. David did that the day he was stressed and showed up at Nick’s apartment in a flustered frenzy. Like father, like son.
This reassures me somewhat. They aren’t that different, and I don’t think Nick would hold a grudge forever against someone he loved. Probably not even for a night.
With that hope fueling me, I gather plates and forks, then cloth napkins. “Want wine? Whiskey? Or water?”
“You have whiskey?” he asks, like I just told him I scored first-base-line tickets to the World Series.
I poke my head out of the kitchen. “I picked some up today. For you. Whiskey, neat? Right?”
That earns me a smile—a thankful, real one. “Yes. Thank you.”
I make his drink, then bring it to him. He takes it and knocks some back, then blows out a long breath. “I needed that.”
“I know,” I say and start toward the kitchen.
“Let me help you,” he says and pushes up off the couch.
I shake my head, and spin around. “No way, mister.” I push his shoulder, firmly shoving him back to the couch. “I got this.”
A tiny smile comes my way. “Yes. You do.”
I return to the kitchen and gather the rest of the meal, along with my glass of pinot gris. Then I join him on the couch. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a bunch of things,” I say, gesturing to the cartons. “Whatever you don’t like, I’ll eat for breakfast this week.”
“You like leftovers for breakfast?” he asks as he spoons some royal noodles onto a plate.
“Of course I do. I am human after all,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason. I just like learning these things about you.”
Warmth rushes down my chest. In the midst of his bad day, he still wants to know me. “Well, if you must know, I like leftovers, and noodles, and curry, and sautéed veggies. Oh, and with Thai food, I love pumpkin curry most of all.”
A sly smile lifts his lips as he takes a bite. When he finishes, he says, “I can make a killer pumpkin curry.”
I laugh. “Of course you can, you cook.”
“I’ll make it for you sometime,” he offers, truly upbeat for the first time tonight. That’s Nick, loving to cook, loving to care.
“I’ll eat it,” I say.
As we dine, his mood doesn’t entirely shift. He’s still down, but I can tell he’s trying to combat it by turning the spotlight on me. He asks me about The Makeover and Mia and what’s next.
I don’t want to talk about me right now, but I can read him. He doesn’t want the attention on himself. And he doesn’t want to talk yet about his son. That’s understandable, and honestly, I don’t need to weigh in. I don’t want to tell him how to parent. So I give him what he seems to need. A necessary distraction.
“We have some more collaborations coming up. Like how to use highlighter,” I say.
He knits his brow. “Highlighter? Like pink and yellow markers?”
A laugh bursts from inside me. “No!” Setting down my fork, I run my finger along the inside of my eye, next to the bridge of my nose. “It can go here. Or your cheekbone. Or any place you want to contour. It’s like the cherry on top of makeup.”