Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Sip. Nod. Glance away.
In my mother’s warped mind, I suppose she thinks this is going to unite our family, bring us closer together at long last.
Beth slips her arm into Errol’s. “We’ve got a couple of names picked out, but I think we want to wait until we meet the little guy first.”
“You’re going to be an uncle, Bennett. Isn’t that lovely?” Mother asks. “Blessings abound. Too early for champagne?”
She chuckles. Beth chuckles. Their hands meet across the table.
I place my glass down, my gaze flicking across the table to my mother’s. “Yes, blessings abound. Who’d have thought you’d become a grandmother twice in one year?”
Her face twists and her mouth moves, soundless. I’ve officially rendered Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach speechless—no easy feat.
“What’s he talking about?” Errol asks.
Beth’s gaze travels around the table as she waits for one of us to explain.
“You haven’t heard?” I sit taller. “Our dear sweet sister had a daughter, and it was her dying wish that I adopt her.”
My mother squeezes her eyes tight, readjusting the napkin in her lap, gathering her composure.
“Mother, is this true?” Errol turns to her.
“She’s five, almost six,” I answer for her, seeing how the cat’s got her tongue. “Dark hair. Big blue Schoenbach eyes.”
Beth’s brows furrow. I imagine she’s putting something together—likely the wrong something.
“Probably a coincidence,” Mother finally pipes up, reaching for her water. “Plenty of people have blue eyes, Bennett.”
I hide my satisfied smirk with a sip of water just in time to glance outside and spot none other than Astaire Carraro crossing the street. From the looks of it, she’s leaving the Elmhurst Theatre. I check my watch. What the hell would she be doing there this early on a Saturday morning?
Her pale hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head. A Styrofoam coffee cup is cozied in one hand, a plaid scarf is wrapped around her neck, and a slouchy suede bag hangs across her body.
She crosses the street with a group of pedestrians, heading this way.
An errant heartbeat trills in my chest.
“Apologies.” I stand, secure the button on my jacket, and push my chair in. “But something just came up.”
My mother’s brows knit. If she’s about to protest, she stops herself. I’m sure she knows it’s best that I leave now before I dredge up any more of the muck and mire she’s spent the past five years burying.
“Beth and Errol … best of luck.” I head to the lobby, grab my coat from the coat check, and dash outside, barely catching her before she makes it to the next crosswalk. “Astaire.”
She doesn’t look up or over or around. She stares straight ahead. When I get closer, I spot her white ear pods.
“Excuse me,” I squeeze between a woman walking a poodle and a man aimlessly scrolling the Wall Street Journal on his phone, and then I tap her shoulder.
She turns to glance over her shoulder just as the light flashes white and the small mob begins to cross.
Astaire’s jaw slacks and she plucks an ear bud out of her ear. “Oh, come on.”
“For the record, I wasn’t following you.” I lift my palms, walking in tandem with her. “I was at Peridot having brunch and I saw you from the window …”
“Convenient.” She lifts her hand to her ear, but I lower it.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay … after last night.”
“Most people … I don’t know … call or text,” she says. “They don’t borderline stalk.”
The woman with the poodle cranes her neck and shoots me a look.
“I’m serious. I just want to know if you’re okay.”
“Sure you do.” She sips her coffee, her fingers protruding out of her knit gloves. A hint of pink lip balm colors the white lid, signifying where her lips have been.
God, those lips.
Full, soft pillows I’d do anything to taste again …
After she bolted last night, I texted Deidre from 6A, thinking I could close my eyes and pretend she was Astaire for the sake of mentally finishing what I’d started, only when she showed up, she’d dyed her hair shit-brown, started peeling off her clothes before my door was shut, and told me she had twenty minutes before she had to meet some guy off Tinder for drinks.
I immediately lost my hard on, told her to get dressed, and sent her back to the sixth floor without another word.
I need the real thing.
I need Astaire.
And last night, I almost had her.
Almost.
That’s what I get for being honest, for telling her up front that it wasn’t anything more than sex.
It’s quite the conundrum I’m facing: Astaire Carraro needs to be wined and dined before she’ll let a man inside of her, and I need to be inside of Astaire Carraro.
“What are you doing this Friday?” I ask.
She shoots me a squint.
Or maybe it’s a wince. A painful wince.