Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Theodora chose this place on purpose, I have no doubt.
I haven’t been on a first date since Emma, and the day I married her, I promised she’d be my last date.
My forever date.
Death has a way of changing things, though, of making agreements null and void whether you like it or not.
I check the time, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the fact that the allegedly effervescent Ms. Margaux Sheridan is eight minutes late. I’ll give her seven more, and then I’m leaving. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past three years, it’s that life is too short for the things that don’t matter—like blind dates people agree to under duress.
For a moment, I visualize my life as sand falling through the center of an hourglass, each granule representing a second I’ll never get back. When you lose something—or in my case someone—it forever alters your perspective on things.
All a person has, truly, is their time.
Everything else is inconsequential.
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” A breathy voice pulls me from my muddling thoughts. Glancing up, I’m met with frosty Alaskan-blue eyes, a fringe of dark lashes, and hair the color of glazed honey and summer sunshine. “Traffic was terrible getting over here, and the Uber driver refused to take a different route and—never mind. I’m here. That’s all that matters, right?” Her full lips pull into a nervous smile before she extends her hand like she’s about to interview for a job. “Margaux. Margaux Sheridan. It’s nice to meet you.”
She’s no Emma, but at least she has basic manners.
That and she’s not the worst thing in the world to look at. Far from it. I’d have to be blind not to notice the subtle, radiant beauty emanating off her, quietly commanding my attention. Not that I have any intention of doing anything with said attention, but maybe tonight won’t be the worst thing I’ve experienced in a while.
Could absolutely be worse.
“Roman.” Rising, I meet her buttery-soft hand with mine and give it a firm shake better suited for a business meeting than a date, and then I wait like a proper gentleman as she takes the seat across from me.
Studying her in the quivering candlelight that filters the space between us, a strange twinge of familiarity hits me—like I’ve seen her somewhere before. I’ve never set foot in my aunt’s building downtown, so it wouldn’t be that.
“I’m sorry . . . Have we met before?” I ask.
She squints as if she’s studying me. “Um, no? I don’t believe so?”
“You look familiar.” My gaze narrows as I try to place her, but my concentration is interrupted by our server.
“I get that a lot.” She orders a cucumber gin and tonic before turning her attention to the food menu.
Sniffing, I say, “I took you as more of a rosé kind of girl.”
“I would never.” A flicker of a grin crosses her full lips before fading completely, like it was never there to begin with. Nerves, perhaps. I won’t hold it against her. “There are rosé girls, then there are cucumber-gin-and-tonic girls. I can see how you might mix us up, but trust me, we’re night and day.”
Witty without being flirty.
I can respect that.
“Fascinating,” I say with a gracious smile to compensate for my sarcasm. “So, Margaux, tell me about yourself.”
I hate this.
I hate every damn second of this.
It’s not who I am. It’s not who I want to be. It’s not where I want to be.
My muscles are riddled with tension, perhaps in an attempt to keep me from crawling out of my skin.
“Oh,” she says, eyes sparking as if she’s surprised by my question. That or she’s nervous. I tend to have that effect on people—but tonight I’m doing my best to not come off like a giant prick allergic to happiness. It’s the least I can do since she got dressed up and came all this way. “Um, what all has Theodora told you about me?”
“Very little, actually.” I don’t want to offend her with the fact that my aunt sold her as a good-time girl. To Theodora’s generation, that sort of label has other connotations. I also don’t want to offend her by confessing that I asked zero questions because I have zero interest in pursuing anything beyond this insufferable evening. “What has she told you about me?”
“Not a whole lot.” She looks around the restaurant, though whether she’s searching for our server and her drink or taking in the scenery is beyond me. It’s all the same, I suppose. Tucking a strand of glossy hair behind one ear, she returns her serene gaze to mine.
“Okay, so on that note,” I say as if I’m conducting a work interview, “let’s start with you.”
This is excruciating.
And it’s clear I’m going to be doing the conversational heavy lifting tonight.
“What do you want to know?” She blinks at me with those baby doll eyes of hers, and I’m not sure if there’s a single thought behind them.