Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“So, you’re here,” I say. Then I want to kick my own ass for that stupid observation. Nice, St. James. You’re killing it, here.
He lifts his beer, brings the bottle to his lips, takes a drink. That lucky bottle. When he sets it down, he licks the corner of his mouth, and hell if I can focus now. “So you’re back in New York for the party. That . . . makes sense.”
“Well, you only turn thirty once.”
He practically rolls his eyes. “You wouldn't want to miss a chance to have a good time.” Mark glances around like he’s looking for someone. “Are you here with . . .”
“With? Who would I be here with? I came for . . .” The word gets lodged in my throat. I’m fucking this up. Big time. “I wouldn’t miss this chance for the world. I had a thing that got canceled. I was supposed to be in Barcelona for a FLI event but it was moved.”
“Ah,” he says, like my answer makes perfect sense. “So, you basically had a free slot in your schedule?”
“Well, yes. But . . .” I hate how awkward this is. This isn’t how Mark and I talk. We’re not how’s your sked guys. We poke and spar. So naturally, I say the exact wrong thing as I tug at the sleeve of his maroon polo. “Nice shirt.”
His jaw ticks. “Seriously? You don’t give me a heads-up you’re coming, you show up, say you had a cancelation, and you mock my clothes?”
It’s easier.
It’s fucking easier than telling you why I’m here.
The words crawl up my throat, but saying I want you hardly conveys why I got on that plane ten hours ago.
And saying I’m here for Flip hardly does either.
Lord knows, I’m still trying to sort out this tangled knot of emotions in my chest.
“That’s not what I need to say,” I try again.
He smiles with his lips closed. “It’s all good. We’re good. You don’t need to think of things to say to me. I’m just . . . some guy you used to know and it’s fine. Let’s not make a big deal of this. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, then threads his way through the crowd at the speed of light, like he did in the club that night, heading toward the hallway. And like that night, I’m not going to let him go.
I follow him, and when he turns the corner, I call his name. “Mark.”
He doesn’t turn around.
“Wait!” So many words clog my throat.
I was dying to see you.
I was hoping you’d be here.
I had no idea what to say.
But I’d always intended to go skydiving on Flip’s thirtieth, so I guess it’s time to leap out of this plane. “I was hoping you’d be here,” I say to the back of his head.
His entire body goes still. But he says nothing as he turns, stares at me. Our eyes lock, like two fighters.
“Say something.” I demand.
He breathes out hard. “Why? So we can catch up on Ollie and Trevor? They broke up, man. It happens. It fucking happens.”
Keep falling. Maybe there’s a parachute along the way. “I hated that,” I say to him.
He crosses his arms. “It’s just fiction.”
It feels real, though, and it hurt like hell. Like my dumb heart hurts when I look at Mark, those blue eyes, those cheekbones, that hair. That five o’clock shadow.
God . . .
I think I’m . . .
I breathe out hard, scrub a hand along the back of my neck, and try one more time. “I should have told you I was coming,” I admit, helpless with all these wild emotions swinging through me.
And Banks, my hardly-ever-lets-down-his-guard, nerdy, hot, gorgeous single dad with the eyes that haunt me, looks at me with resignation. “You don’t owe me anything, Asher,” he says, like he’s forgiving me for not wanting more.
But he’s wrong.
He’s so fucking wrong.
“I know. But I should have texted,” I say.
“Because you think I can’t handle seeing you? I’m fine, man.”
But his Adam’s apple throbs. His poker face falters, and longing flashes in his eyes. I recognize it because I feel it in every damn cell in my body too.
I try again. “I know you can handle anything⏤”
Heels click. A woman sashays toward us. Black, sleek hair. She waggles her fingers at me. “Hey Ash,” she calls out.
“Hi Danya,” I say, but that’s all. I don’t meet her gaze. I can’t deal with anyone else.
My eyes dart around, scanning the hall. There’s an open door a few feet ahead. I step closer to Mark, grab his arm, and pull him into the room.
It’s a library, with rich wood shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling, laden with spines of hardcovers, and the scent of pages filling the room.
It’s so fucking fitting.