Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I’m flat.
Flatter than I’ve been in a long time.
And it’s weird because I had a very successful week. John called, and the documents are here. Tomorrow I’m meeting him, and he’s signing the house over to me. Another one of my images went viral. Of course, it’s from the same lot that Blake took at the wedding with the icing, but anyway, I made an extra $3,000.
This is a time for celebration. I’m getting everything I ever wanted.
I’m financially stable, the house is being signed over into my name, and yet all I feel is empty. All because I told Blake I don’t want to be his friend anymore.
I miss him already.
I get a lump in my throat as I think about life without him in it. It’s not something that I can even comprehend. Until this happened, I didn’t realize how much I depend on him. He was there to pick me up after John. In fact, he has been there to pick me up every day for the last year. He’s been such a supportive, wonderful friend, and the first little hiccup we have on a double date, I tell him I don’t want to be friends at all.
What kind of ungrateful, selfish witch does that?
I need to make this right.
I’m just going to text him and say sorry. I know that I probably broke something between us, but I feel like he broke it first.
At least texting will clear my conscience, and we can hopefully move past this and carry on as friends.
I take out my phone and think about what I should text him. Hmm, do I apologize, or do I just act like normal?
No, I just have to apologize. I text him.
Hi Blake.
I’m sorry for our fight.
I didn’t mean what I said.
My phone instantly rings, and the name Blake lights up the screen. Shit.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Hi, Bec.” His voice is soft and cajoling.
“Sorry to text so late,” I say.
“It’s okay. I was lying here in bed thinking about texting you anyway.” I get a vision of him lying in the dark in his hotel room.
We both hang on the line. The silence between us is deafening. A million words that I want to say but just never seem appropriate.
“Blake?”
“Yeah,” he replies softly.
“What would have happened if I gave you my number?”
He thinks for a moment. “You mean when I said before that if we met under different circumstances, I would have asked for your number?”
“Yes. If you asked for my number and I gave it to you, what would have happened?”
“Then I would have called you that very day, and I would have asked you out on a date that night . . . because I couldn’t have waited one more hour to see you. I would have been nervous before I picked you up, and you would have worn my favorite red dress, and I would have worn your favorite pair of blue jeans.”
My heart swells as I listen.
“And we would have gone to our favorite restaurant, Little Italy. You would have ordered the beef ragù, and I would have ordered the fettuccine,” he says softly.
I smile as I listen.
“And we would have drunk a bottle of red wine and ordered dessert, and then by the end of the tiramisu . . . I would have known that you were the one.”
Chapter 15
Confusion runs through my body . . . then panic . . . then, like an avalanche, an overwhelming sense of relief.
“That sounds . . .” What’s the word I’m looking for? “Perfect.”
Silence.
I close my eyes, unsure what that silence means.
“Bec,” he says softly.
My heart is beating so hard in my chest that I can hear it in my ears.
“Yes.”
“Can I have your number?”
I smile softly. “It’s 555-7289.”
“Okay.”
More silence.
“I have to go. Good night, Rebecca.”
“Good night, Blake.” I hang up. Did that really just happen?
My phone begins to ring, and the name Blake lights up the screen. I laugh out loud. That idiot.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Hi, Rebecca, it’s Blake Grayson. We met the other day. I’m not sure if you remember me.”
“Ah, yes, Blake.” I smile as I play along. “I do remember you.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me?”
My stomach flutters. “I’d like that. Where do you want to go?”
“I know this fabulous Italian restaurant.”
“You do?” I smile. “What’s it called?”
“Little Italy. Shall I meet you there, or . . . ?”
“Why don’t you pick me up?”
“I can do that.”
“Actually, let’s keep Carol on her toes, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Good idea.”
I can tell that he’s smiling, because I’m smiling too.
We both hang on the line, and there’s this weird, serendipitous feeling floating between us. Like a tangible force. I can feel it.
Can he feel it too?
“I’ll be home on Monday,” he says softly.
“Good. I don’t like you being away.”