Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“One dinner.” I hold his eyes with mine as long as I can, dropping them before his eyes show triumph or satisfaction.
“When?” His question doesn’t break stride, as if he hasn’t gone through a gamut of emotions to end up right back at the request that started it all.
“Um…I don’t know.” I shrug, catching the eye of a woman staring at me. I smile politely like I don’t realize she recognizes me. “When do you want?”
“How about tonight?” His eyes are still serious, the smile I’ve gotten used to still nowhere in sight. I didn’t realize how much I’d grown to like that smile until it’s nowhere to be found. I want it back, so I say the thing I hope will restore it.
“Sure. Tonight works.”
He doesn’t smile, but leans in and down to kiss my forehead and then to lightly brush his lips over mine. The heat that’s been set to simmer between us flares up in me again, responding to his faintest touch like a nerve sliced open. I’ve had sex in public bathrooms and once, in Milan, almost fell from a balcony screwing, but I’ve rarely felt this exposed. Like I’m standing naked on Fifth Avenue, giving everyone a show. Or worse, showing him more than he should see.
“Seven o’clock then.” He turns around and walks away.
There was no smile. No dimples, no laughter, but I could have sworn in those dark eyes, there was pleasure. It’s a little scary how much pleasing him, knowing he’s not angry with me anymore, pleases me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Trevor
I spent my morning at the UN negotiating diamond mine rights with leaders from the Democratic Republic of Congo, and tonight I’m trying my damnedest to dechoke artichoke hearts. Give me the UN any day. I’m good at that. This? This tiny paring knife and my big ol’ fingers? Give me delicate negotiations over delicate fruit any day.
Are artichokes fruits or vegetables?
I’m still pondering this and life’s other mysteries when Harold and Henri come down the staircase, both dressed for their first date. Henri’s wearing her contacts. Harold’s ditched his glasses, too, but he’s squinting and bumping into the couch. And he’s wearing aftershave. Nerd mating rituals.
“You ready?” Harold squints in Henri’s general direction but is actually talking to a large plant in my sister’s foyer.
He looks calm to the naked eye, but I’ve known him for almost fifteen years. I know a river’s probably running under his armpits. Hope he wore a T-shirt.
“Sure.” Henri frowns. “Actually, let me go grab a wrap.”
She turns and dashes back up the stairs. When Harold comes into the kitchen and nearly breaks his neck stumbling over the trash can, I have to intervene.
“Smith, where are your glasses? You know you can’t see three seconds ahead of you without them.”
“I just thought I’d—”
“Go get them.” I set the artichokes aside, afraid I’ll pare my index finger if I have to focus on the food and Harold at the same time. “Henri’s seen your glasses before, and she still said yes.”
“But I think that—”
“Do you want to face Zimbabwe’s minister of finance with a sprained ankle or worse tomorrow?”
“Of course not. My vision—”
“Is nonexistent. Get your glasses, man.”
Harold squints at me for a few more seconds before slumping his shoulders and turning back to march up the staircase.
“Tell Henri I’ll be right back.”
I’ve never seen Harold this way over anything. Not even his spreadsheets and algorithms. I’m trying again with the artichokes when Henri comes back down, peering through the living room and into the kitchen, brows knit again.
“Where’d Harold go?”
“He forgot his glasses.”
“You convinced him to wear them, huh?” She grins and props a hip against the counter. “Thanks. We probably would have ended up in the ER if he tried to leave this house without those glasses.”
“You just better hope he doesn’t put on more aftershave while he’s up there.”
“You’re evil.” Henri tosses a blueberry from the bowl on the counter at me. I block it so it plops uselessly to the floor.
You could easily be fooled into thinking Henri unremarkable. Button nose, sprinkled with freckles. Narrow chin widening into a heart-shaped face. Shoulder-length hair, not quite dark enough to be brunette, but nowhere near blond. That’s Henri in repose. Henri on a mission, solving a problem, figuring out how to get fresh water into a droughty region or food to a starving village—that’s Henri on fire. The challenge and reward illuminate her face. She all but glows, and that’s what Harold fell hard for.
I have five sisters, so it’s not like I need another one, but Henri feels like number six. She studies me performing open-heart surgery on the artichoke hearts with my tiny knife.
“Gimme that.” She takes the knife and deftly peels away the delicate leaves, tossing them into the bowl of olive oil. “You roasting these?”