Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a watch like that. Most people just use their phones these days.”
My sassy attitude dips below my belt when he murmurs, “It was my father’s.” He shifts nervously from foot to foot. “He wasn’t around much, and when I found it in the back of a bathroom drawer, my mother said it was probably the only thing I’d ever get from him of any value, so I may as well have it.” My heart breaks for him when he whispers, “She left not long after that.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, hating that our conversation has veered to the negative. My parents have been together since high school, so I often forget over fifty percent of marriages end in divorce.
“For?” Laken asks after stuffing his hand into his pocket, his tone not the slightest bit sarcastic.
After twisting my lips, I shrug. “For bringing up a sore point so soon into our…”
When I can’t find the right words to explain our immediate kinship, Laken brings humor back into our exchange. “Date?” he suggests, his brows waggling.
I pop my elbow into his ribs for the second time. It switches the unease on his face to joy in under a second and has me confident if I don’t place distance between us soon, I’ll forget we’re strangers.
“This isn’t a date,” I murmur when no number of screams from my brain have my legs following its command. My body enjoys being cocooned by Laken’s warmth, and not even remembering that I know nothing about him, bar his name and age, have my feet budging.
Laken hums like he disagrees with me before shifting his focus to the vast skyline stretched to Hopeton.
I suck down an unhealthy whiff of his scent before following the direction of his gaze. It is surreal that I’m so close to the edge but not breaking out in hives. I feel free, almost weightless.
If it wouldn’t make me look like an imbecile, I’d be tempted to thrust out my arms and do a corny rendition of the famous Titanic scene.
A couple of seconds later, I crank my neck back to Laken. His laugh is soundless, but since my body is scrutinizing every minute move he makes, I know laughter is rumbling in his chest.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” His one word is chopped up by a chuckle he can’t hold back. “It’s just that you’re humming the lyrics from the ‘I’m flying, Jack’ scene”—he mimics Rose’s voice—“but also gripping the railing so tight your knuckles are white.”
“Because I’m scared. A fear of heights is nothing to be laughed at.”
His eyes widen as his smile is wiped from his face. “You’re afraid of heights?”
“Yes!”
“Then why the hell are you standing here? Looking down at that.” My head grows woozy when he thrusts his hand at the people too small to resemble ants. “Whoa. Careful.” He bands his arms around my waist and draws me back until my backside squashes against his crotch, and his breaths tickle my ear.
Our closeness doubles my wooziness, but before I can force distance between us, he skyrockets my pants to gasped breaths. “Step onto the railing.”
“Are you insane? I’m not doing that.”
If his voice gets any hotter, I’ll melt where I stand when he whispers in my ear, “Do you trust me?”
“No, I don’t. I hardly know you.”
Laken acts as if I never spoke. “Don’t peek. Keep your eyes closed.”
“That’s not what he said,” I gabber out as we inch closer to the edge of the railing. “Jack would have stopped the instant Rose said no.”
“But then the magic would have never occurred, and we’d still believe Casablanca was the greatest romance movie of all time.”
“At least until The Notebook came out,” I argue, my words not as strangled by panic as they were only seconds ago. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
“I’m not making you do anything, Nicole. This is all you.”
When I peer back at him, primed and ready to call him an idiot, my words lodge in my throat. Inches separate us—far more than my deviant head is happy about—and I suddenly feel hopeless.
“I can’t—”
“Step onto the railing,” Laken encourages before I chicken out.
“I—”
Another denial is cut short, but the cause of the interruption is nothing close to what I was expecting. It still follows the Titanic nature of our exchange but exposes I have a lot to learn about the man standing across from me.
Even with his facial expression teasing, Laken’s voice is more polished than Leonardo DiCaprio’s when he sings a line from “Come, Josephine, in my Flying Machine.”
I assume he will stop at the one line everyone knows from the movie, so the fact he recites more shows his love of music is as strong as his love of classic films.
Only a true music buff memorizes lyrics to popular blockbuster jingles.