Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
The tunnel whizzes past as he drives and even though the tunnel is lit, it’s much darker in the car than it was a few moments ago. He looks over at me, his face shadowed by the darkness, but I don’t miss the analytical look on his face.
“Are you anxious about a fake date?”
“No!” Maybe just a little. “I’m just, you know, clarifying, because you never said.”
“It’s a real fake date,” he says, looking a little annoyed.
“Real fake,” I repeat. “That is super confusing.”
“Just pretend you like me.”
“I don’t dislike you,” I offer helpfully. “You’re okay.”
He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and glances at me out of the side of his eye.
“What? I’m just agreeing that it won’t be horribly hard to pretend to like you.” He’s sort of confusing, this guy.
“Great,” he says as he slows the car as we exit the tunnel and roll up to a traffic light.
“Look, I’m sure you’re not used to women faking it with you, but this fake date was your idea, not mine.”
“You’re right. I’m not used to women faking it with me.” He smirks. He’s not even looking at me, his attention on the road ahead of him, so I think he’s smirking to himself. Asshole.
Yet.
Yet I can’t help but think he’s earned that smirk. I can admit I’m curious. Even if it’s never going to happen, my imagination is not nearly as socially awkward as I am. So I can visualize him on top of me. Holding himself above me with those arms—he has really nice arms. He’s wearing a navy sweater and he’s pushed the sleeves up to the elbow at some point during this drive so I’ve had time to observe them close up, and, yeah. Arm porn. I bet he has no problems unscrewing those tough lids on jars. Or fucking. Either or.
“Is it our first date? This wedding? Or have we been seeing each other a while?”
He nods his head slowly, like he approves of my planning our fake dating history. “Not a first date, but it’s a new relationship. How’s that?”
“Okay, I can do that.”
I’m quiet while Boyd navigates the streets of Manhattan. He seems intent on a destination and while I’m curious, I’m happy to go along with the flow. It’s sorta nice having someone take charge of the day. New York has this energy about it, it’s fun to watch it from the comfort of the car. Philadelphia’s a huge city too, but nothing like the chaos of Manhattan. Philly is more my speed on a day-to-day basis, but New York for a day will be fun.
Boyd turns down 17th and pulls into a garage. I slide my feet back into my sneakers and apply a fresh layer of Chapstick while Boyd finds a parking spot. I didn’t catch the cross street when we pulled in, but we exit the garage and end up on 5th Avenue after a short block with Boyd guiding our direction.
“We have to make a stop first,” he says, sliding a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, his demeanor serious.
“Okay,” I agree, shrugging. We walk a couple of blocks to 19th then head west. We don’t talk, but the silence isn’t weird. If you can even call it silence. New York is loud and it seems we’re both content to listen to the background sounds of people yelling, horns blaring and tires screeching.
We walk half a block before Boyd stops, holding a door open for me to enter. His eyes are hidden behind the sunglasses but the smile on his face tells me he’s amused. I stop and look up. Dough. I glance past him into the store. It’s a donut shop called Dough, how cute is that? “You brought me to a donut shop?”
“You don’t like donuts?” The tone of his question is fake incredulous. “Are you sure? I really thought I nailed this after seeing those pants of yours.”
I roll my eyes in his face as he laughs. “You’re an ass.” But I enter the shop all the same because really, who doesn’t love donuts? And holy cow, the smells wafting from the door are calling to me. We make our way to the end of the line and I bounce on my toes to read the menu board over people’s heads. Ohh… specialty donuts. How will I choose? We reach the front and Boyd indicates I should order first. I select a Nutella donut. And a dulce de leche. And a pumpkin. It’s seasonal, I can’t pass that up. Plus who knows when I’ll be back here again?
“I’m sorry, were you ordering for both of us?” Boyd deadpans.
“Shut up.”
He orders a cinnamon sugar donut then asks if I want a coffee too. Is he crazy? One donut? “He wants a salted chocolate caramel donut too,” I tell the girl taking our order. “And we’ll take two coffees.”