Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“I fast-tracked.” She swirls the remaining wine in her glass before freezing and placing it down in a hurry. Turning to me, she splays a hand on the bar top. “Wait. Oh, my god. I know why you look familiar.”
“What? How?” My ears burn as I wait. Never in my life have I been so dumbfounded, so incapable of uttering more than a few fucking words, but here I sit, paralyzed, in utter awe with a side of disbelief. “How do we know each other?”
Her heart-shaped mouth curls up at one corner. “We met earlier this year. In a bar. You hit on me.”
Her words don’t compute. Not at first. “I’m sorry—I think I’d remember hitting on someone like you.”
“Wow.” Her brows lift and she takes a sip. “Silly me for thinking you’d remember after that mouthful you gave me.”
“Mouthful? What are you talking about?”
“You told me you could last longer than seven minutes … that you could give me an orgasm … that you wanted to know what my mouth tasted like …” She’s blushing, hiding an embarrassed half-smile.
Those sound like exactly the kinds of things I would’ve said before.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Sorry? For what?”
“I’m sorry for coming onto you like that.”
Her head tilts and her dark hair drapes over one shoulder. “Don’t be. It’s not like you got any anyway. I don’t do strangers, remember? Wait. You don’t remember hitting on me so you definitely wouldn’t remember my stance on one night stands …”
I take a drink of whiskey and settle back.
“When did we meet?” I ask.
Her brow lifts and she studies the wall behind me. “February. thought it feels like a lifetime ago at this point.”
Her gaze falls to the fourth finger on her left hand, which is bare, but shows the indentations of a ring. My heart sinks, and I feel the color bleed from my face by the second, but I maintain my composure.
“Are you … married … now?” I swallow the hard lump in my throat and clear my throat.
She tosses back the rest of her drink.
My heart is heavy and arrhythmic, and my chest constricts. It feels like forever before she remotely reacts to my question.
She nods, eyelids heavy and gaze pointed at the wine glass before her. “I’m technically engaged, but I’m planning on ending it.”
I release a hard breath. Obvious. Loud.
“What are you waiting for?”
She turns to me with glassy green eyes. “Have you ever broken someone’s heart before?”
“More times than I can count.”
“Well, I haven’t. Not like this,” she says. “He’s crazy about me. He’d marry me tomorrow if I’d let him. And he’s so good to me. So sweet. I have to let him down slowly. I have to handle this with dignity. It’s the least I can do.”
“Rip the fucking Band-Aid. Trust me, you’ll both be better for it in the end. No sense in dragging out the inevitable.”
Her lips waver and she offers a bittersweet smile. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Isn’t it though? If you don’t want to marry him, tell him.” So you can marry me …
“He’s a person. He has a heart. I’m treating him the way I’d want him to treat me.”
“With kid gloves?” I snort.
“With compassion and respect for his feelings.”
Her phone lights up beside her with a call, though I don’t catch the name on the Caller ID before she swipes it away. “Shoot. It’s him actually. I have to go.”
Digging into her bag, she retrieves a twenty and places it on the bar top before sliding off her chair and tossing her jacket over her arm and her bag over her shoulder.
“Wait.” I stand.
“I’m so sorry—it was lovely meeting you—again.” She gives a distracted wave before disappearing out the door. As soon as she gets outside, she lifts her phone to her ear and vanishes into the throng of tourists gathered around a black limousine.
I drag my hand through my hair and sit back down, deflated.
I never got her name.
But she’s real.
She exists.
I pay my tab and book it uptown, all but banging down Claire’s door when I arrive.
She answers with a hand on her hip. “Dude, chill. What’s going on? Why are you—”
I show myself in. “She’s real, Claire. She’s real. I just met her.”
“What?” She locks the door behind me. “Who’s real?”
“The girl. The girl from that dream.”
“The one with the tattoo?” she asks.
Fuck. I never had a chance to check for it, but I know it was her.
I know it was.
I know it with every fiber of my fucked-up soul.
“Yes,” I say. “Her.”
Claire’s brows narrow as she studies me, and then she cups a palm over my forehead. “You feeling okay?”
“Please don’t patronize me right now.”
“Did you get her name?” She takes a seat on the sofa, adjusting the mountain of throw pillows behind her.
“No.”
“Did you even talk to her?”