Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
She hits play and turns the phone for us both to see. But the video’s not the proposal. It’s me at the bar last week as I removed a purple dick from a pink envelope. “How did this get here? Is it yours?” I’m asking Grams, off-screen.
And Elodie is dying. She’s laughing over the remains of her latte.
When the video ends, I shake my head in admiration. “Grandma two. Gage, zero.”
“I’ll say,” Elodie says.
“She will never not get my goat.”
“You two have quite the bond, don’t you?”
“Yeah, we really do.”
“I’m glad she’s in on it then. I wouldn’t want to lie to her. Or to your daughter,” she says.
That means a lot to me. That she feels the same. “Me too. I’m glad they are as well. I’m glad we agree a little bit on how to be honest within our false romance.”
Somehow, that makes me feel a little closer to her.
When we leave, heading toward her store, we pass The Chocolate Connoisseur, not too far from her shop. It’s black and silver, all sleek and modern, with a red sale sign on the window and a chocolate sculpture of a horse in the center of the store. It’s teeming with customers.
She slows her pace, checking out the shop as she whispers to me. “That’s him.”
“The horse?”
“No, I’m sure the horse is the patriarchy. But that’s Sebastian next to it. He likes to interact with customers when he’s in his flagship store,” she says, nodding subtly to a man in a newsboy hat chatting animatedly to a group checking out the horse. He has one of those vaguely charming faces. Fair skin, straight teeth, probably a one-time frat boy.
Without thinking twice, I wrap an arm around my fiancée. I get to touch her like this. Me. Just me. “He won’t ever get his hands on your shop.”
“Good.”
Then, to prove my point, I drop a firm kiss to her cheek. Her perfume tickles my nose and fries my brain. “Cherries. You smell like cherries.”
She gazes up at me with that clever smile I adore. “We should have chocolate-covered cherries at our opening.”
“Yes, we should. And we should call it Unforgettable.”
“Like a good chocolate should be.”
We walk, but a second or two later, the door swings open and a booming voice calls out, “Elodie!”
Her shoulders tense, then her whole body. Her expression shifts quickly, as she rearranges her features to false cheer while turning around. “Hello, Sebastian.”
“You walk by and don’t come in? I’ve got some autumn-themed bonbons just for you.”
My neck prickles. That sounds awfully familiar. Didn’t she have bonbons like that in her shop when I asked her out? But I dismiss the thought quickly. They must be a normal thing in the chocolate business.
“They sound wonderful. And of course I’d love to try one,” she says, and maybe it’s me, but she sounds like she’s having a harder time with that falsehood than the ones we spun about us. “Excuse my manners though. This is my fiancé, Gage Archer. Gage, meet Sebastian Roberts, the mastermind behind The Chocolate Connoisseur.”
He hardly seems worthy of the title. But I go with it as I extend a hand. “Nice to meet you. Great shop. Love the horse,” I add, though I don’t, but any man who puts a horse sculpture in the middle of his store clearly wants everyone to admire his equine.
As we shake, his gray eyes darken with, perhaps, confusion. Then, something else I can’t quite read as that inquisitive gaze strays to her hand while he shakes mine, saying, “Nice to meet the lucky man.”
She waves, showing off the ring. “Yes, we’re…recently engaged,” she says, and I wish this weren’t uncomfortable for her. I wish I could save her. But maybe I can.
“Why don’t we get those bonbons? I can take some home to my daughter. And Grandma. They’ll love them,” I say.
“Yes! They’re on the house.” Sebastian gestures grandly to the shopfront.
That seems to defuse the strange tension. Men like him like commerce. After we go inside, I pick up more boxes than I want, then we say goodbye and leave, with the unwanted chocolates in hand.
Once we’re outside, she rolls her shoulders like she’s getting the scent of him off her.
“You okay?” I ask, wrapping an arm around her again.
She hesitates before she answers with a firm nod. “I’m fine. I just feel…oily.”
“For lying to him?”
“Just the whole thing,” she says, then draws a deep breath, like she needs it to clean away the encounter.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head. “No, but thank you for saving the day.”
“Hardly,” I say because I don’t want to take credit. I’m just glad I helped her when she needed it.
We keep walking and I don’t let go of her. Not when we reach the next block, or the next one, or the next one.