Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
It’d be quicker to take the subway from here, but I don’t trust myself to get on a train and successfully arrive at my destination, so instead, I walk through Central Park, over to the Upper East Side. I get turned around once, but eventually, I find my way.
I check my phone: it’s nearly nine PM. I know Nicholas works a lot when he’s in the city, but surely he’s home by now, right?
I pass his apartment building the first time I walk by it because I didn’t think to check the address on the awning. I was looking down at the curb.
“Miss? Can I help you?” his doorman asks.
He’s a short man wearing a black suit trimmed with gold, and I think he’s taking pity on me.
I show him the address on the paper written in Cornelia’s neat handwriting. I knew the place would be fancy, given Rosethorn, and yet I’m still surprised when he nods and tells me I’ve found the right building.
“Oh, okay…then I think I need to go in there,” I say, pointing to the door.
He smiles and throws his hands out like, Who wouldn’t?
“Unfortunately, I’m only allowed to admit residents and guests of residents.”
“Oh, well, technically I’m a guest.”
“Of who?”
“Mr. Hunt,” I say, suddenly trying to sound very serious and formal, as if that will matter.
“All right, let me call Mr. Hunt and confirm that. I don’t mean to be rude, but our residents expect a certain level of security from us. You seem nice, it’s just rules are rules.”
“No, I understand.”
I watch as he goes into the vestibule that separates the lobby of the apartment complex from the street. He picks up a small black phone and dials, holding his finger up to me so I know to wait.
A few moments later, he shakes his head and drops the phone back on the receiver.
“Sorry, ma’am. Mr. Hunt wasn’t home. Do you want me to tell him you stopped by or…?” His eyes fall on the shoebox.
Right.
“Would it be okay if I left this here for him? Will you make sure he gets it?”
“Sure thing. Will he know who it’s from, or do you want to leave a name?”
“He’ll know. Thank you, Mr.…”
“Barry.” He grins. “You can just call me Barry.”
From there, I head back to my hotel.
It’s an hour later when the phone in my room rings. It’s so loud and unexpected that I jump out of my skin, only realizing after the third piercing trill that I’m actually expected to answer it.
“Oh, hello. Hi!”
“Ms. Mitchell, you have a guest waiting for you in the lobby. He says his name is Nicholas Hunt.”
“Really?! Okay! I’ll be right there!”
I hang up and look down. I was in the middle of eating a gourmet vending machine dinner consisting of Nutty Buddy bars and potato chips. Crumbs are strewn across my pajama shirt. The fingers of my left hand are a winning combination of melted chocolate and salty chip dust. I leap off my bed and head into the bathroom, washing my hands and glancing up in the mirror. The reflection staring back at me is good, not great. I brush my teeth quickly and throw my hair into a ponytail.
Back in the room, I run around, trying to quickly replace my pajamas with a pair of jeans and a white shirt. In my rush, I thunk my shin against the edge of the bedframe and hiss as I try to soothe the pain.
I have no idea how much time lapses between the phone call and the moment the elevator dings before I step out into the lobby, but Nicholas isn’t there when I arrive.
There’s a big family with matching FIRST TIME IN NEW YORK CITY t-shirts filling the small space.
“Asher! Jacob! Mason! STOP RUNNING AROUND!” the dad yells before turning back to face the front desk clerk. “Sorry. Say that again, will you?”
“DAD! Are we eating dinner? I’m sooooo hungry,” a little girl moans, tugging on his shirt.
“Leave your dad alone, he’s trying to talk to the nice man here about our hotel room,” their mom says, yanking the child away.
She throws a fit. The volume level inside the lobby reaches a piercing crescendo, and the clerk looks to me with one eye comically twitching in pain in response to the noise.
“Went outside,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Just a second ago.”
I throw him an appreciative smile and sidle past the family. I push the door open and step out onto the city sidewalk, exchanging the sound of the family for the sounds of the city streets. Cars and people rush past me, a bar across the street plays a basketball game for patrons on their patio, and a team must score because everyone shoots up to their feet and starts to cheer.
It takes a moment to orient myself and then I look to my right, finding there’s no Nicholas.