Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Alistair laughed, and I suddenly wanted to share another ten of my most embarrassing moments. I liked the way his eyes crinkled and lit up. I liked the way he stood closer than necessary, always touching me…the brush of his shoulder or pinky finger. I wished every room in this museum were longer.
We ordered tea and sat on the terrace outside of the rooftop café, nibbling pastries and commenting on clouds shaped like toy balloons in the blue sky, the fat tabby sleeping on the sill of a nearby mansard roof, and the delicious autumn chill in the air.
Okay, that was me. Still yapping.
“I love fall. It’s my favorite season by far. We don’t get these amazing oranges and reds everywhere in LA. Not that I’m complaining. Our weather is better and—”
“Do you miss home?” he interrupted.
“No, not at all. I miss Liza, though. I’ve been checking in with Max and his cousin for updates. Apparently, she hasn’t been pining for me. The nerve.”
Alistair smiled. “Your world is very different from mine. More colorful. I have a hard time picturing gossamer sheaths and muscular men called Dash. I suppose you order lattes with a list of special instructions at a coffee shop where you might bump into a movie star or a rock god on a random Wednesday.”
“Well…yes. I’ve had the occasional star sighting, and that’s fun. I play up the whole ‘OMG, can you believe who I saw’ routine at the salon, but between you and me, they’re just people with issues of their own. Maybe I’m not as easy to impress as I used to be. So you brushed elbows with Selena Gomez at The Grove, so what? I’m having cha-mom-olee tea on a rooftop in Paris with a guy who knows how to read hyperglyphics.” I held up my hand like a pastor at Sunday morning mass. “I win, honey. I win.”
His eyes crinkled and his cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “I believe you mean chamomile tea and hieroglyphics.”
I winked. “I do indeed.”
The professor shook his head in faux exasperation. “You’re bonkers, you know that?”
“Only a pinch.” I rested my elbow on the table and smiled. “You never told me your favorite color.”
“Soft greens…and blues. The colors of the trees and sky in London after a rainstorm.”
“Isn’t London mostly gray?”
“We have our share of rain, but we have lovely days too. I live in Marylebone near The Regent’s Park. It’s a pretty spot. In springtime, there are trees with pink petals and lawns dotted with tiny white flowers. It’s like candy floss and marshmallows…the sort of thing illustrators draw in children’s books. I have a flat in Oxford as well, a block away from the river. Weeping willows drag their tendrils through the murky Cherwell, and on a clear day the water looks green and you can see the clouds’ reflection from the sky above. It’s like walking into a painting.”
“But not a Picasso.”
“Certainly not.” Alistair snorted. “I may be biased, but the English countryside is quite beautiful.”
“I know. I haven’t spent enough time in the UK to give big opinions, but I’ve been to Cornwall to visit Raine and Graham, and my view from the train window on our way here was a feast for the eyes. California is beautiful too. Just different.”
“Do you go to the beach at home?”
I waved my arms. “Oh, no. I don’t like sunscreen, sand, and I look like a stick figure in beachwear. I’m too skinny, and there’s no hiding my lack of muscles in a suit.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. “You’re very good-looking, Win. Don’t tell me you don’t know that.”
“Thanks, but I know what I’m dealing with. If I have the notion to worship the sun, I invite my friends over for a margarita brunch and we sit under umbrellas by the pool in my apartment complex. I wear a caftan, a huge hat, and movie-star sunglasses. No one cares what I look like there…except pervy old Mr. Macklin. But he’s ninety and his currency is old Hollywood. He has the best stories about Rock Hudson and Marlon Brando. He might be bullshitting, but he sounds convincing, and isn’t that half the battle?”
Alistair sipped his tea. “You’ve used that expression before. What do you mean by currency?”
“The thing you bring to the table. Your cash, your cred, your talent. Mine is entertainment.”
“How so?”
“With my family, I’m the fun guncle, the adoring son and grandson they love but can’t relate to. At the salon, I ask questions, tell tales, and play therapist…with humor. My closest friends know the real me. I don’t have to behave around them. They don’t judge me harshly or expect me to be on my game all the time. My currency can be a bag of chips and a seat on my chaise with them.” I stirred my tea. “What about you?”