Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
My three favorite stories of all time—and each of them a signed first edition.
* * *
For the first time, I understand people who go for a run when they’re stressed.
I can’t sit still—and I haven’t been able to for the past hour. Same goes for finishing my dinner. I’m pacing around my tiny apartment, going from kitchen to bedroom to bathroom and back. My cats are staring at me like I’ve lost my mind, and it’s possible that I have.
There’s no way a bajillion dollars’ worth of rare books are sitting on my kitchen counter, along with a note that says, “Pick you up at 7 tonight.”
It’s a prank. It has to be.
For the twentieth time, I grab my phone and begin composing a message to Marcus.
Thank you so much for your insanely generous gifts, but I’m afraid I can’t accept them—and I have other plans tonight. Also, are you messing with me?
I erase the text before I can send it, just like I erased the nineteen attempts before it.
Nothing I compose sounds right. I can edit a novel with ruthless precision, suggesting words and phrases that convey the meaning perfectly, but I can’t seem to write this text.
I’ve never been so off-balance. And worst of all, the clock is ticking, getting inevitably closer to seven. In seventeen minutes, Marcus is going to come pick me up, and I still haven’t been able to work up the courage to call or text him to make sure that doesn’t happen.
It’s probably best if I talk to him about this in person, I reason, trying to make myself feel better about my inexplicable cowardice. Maybe if I can see his expression, I’ll know what he’s after, as opposed to making dumb assumptions. Because none of this—the gifts, the ambiguous notes—makes any sense.
Obviously, I have no intention of going on a date with him—if “pick you up” even means a date. And if it does, what kind of asshole tells a woman he’s picking her up instead of asking? What if I had other plans? Granted, I didn’t, but he can’t know that, can he?
Then again, how does he know what my favorite books or flowers are? Or what kind of scarf I wanted? We’ve never talked about that.
My head is beginning to hurt from overthinking, so I stop by my bed to scoop up Cottonball—who immediately starts purring.
“I know, baby.” Cradling him against my chest, I stroke his soft fur. “I haven’t cuddled you tonight, and I’m sorry. Maybe Marcus won’t show up. It could all be a massive joke, you know? The books might not even be real but some kind of reproductions—though I have no idea why he’d bother.”
Queen Elizabeth lifts her head from my pillow and gives me a narrow-eyed look.
“You don’t think it’s a joke?” I ask over Cottonball’s loud purr, and she yawns demonstratively.
“Yeah, okay, maybe it’s not that funny, but what else could it be? I told him it’s not going to work out between us, and I’m sure he has a million women lined up to date him.”
She yawns again and puts her head back on the pillow.
“I know. It’s all so confusing, isn’t it?” I sigh and sit down on the bed next to her—which Mr. Puffs takes as an invitation to shove Cottonball off my lap. He gets jealous when I interact with his siblings, so I scratch behind his ears, knowing that if I don’t, my remaining accessories are in for a world of pain.
Continuing to pet Mr. Puffs, I sneak a glance at my phone.
6:53 p.m.
If this were a date, I’d be freaking out about the fact that I’m still dressed in my ratty old sweatpants and a T-shirt covered with cat hair, but I’m not. I’m really not. Because this is not a date. Even if Marcus shows up at my door as promised, I’m just going to give him back the insanely expensive books and calmly explain that I’m not going anywhere. I will tell him to stop sending me gifts with mocking messages and—oh, who am I kidding?
Ignoring Mr. Puffs’s offended yowl, I push him off my lap and rush to the closet, frantically yanking out one outfit after another. I’m not dressing up for Marcus; it’s for me, I tell myself. I want to be presentable because it’s the civilized thing to do. I’d do it for anyone, even Kendall. Especially Kendall, come to think of it. I’d never hear the end of it if she saw me looking like a hobo.
Of course, as luck would have it, this Saturday is laundry day, and I have next to nothing in my closet. But anything is an upgrade over what I’m currently wearing, so I wriggle into my skinny jeans—so named because I need to be way skinnier to comfortably wear them—and yank on a gray sweater that only has a little bit of cat hair on it.