Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
And even now that we’re just back to being friends, he still forgets to get an extra pastry versus just splitting the one he got in half.
“Alright,” Lars says once his chuckling has died down, “why don’t you bring me a shrimp cocktail?”
Tate nods his comprehension, shoots me a wink, dismisses himself without another word, yet again taking my attention with him.
This time when my date talks, I don’t bother reangling my focus. I simply let myself guiltlessly indulge in the real appetizer I wish I could turn into a meal. With every stride he takes, his body doesn’t just cross the territory he’s moving through, it floats. It’s as if he’s so carefree that even gravity cannot weigh him down.
Part of me wonders what that’s like.
To be so…light.
See, I have a tough job.
It keeps you directly more aware of the value of life, the significance of time and moments and loved ones, but it doesn’t – in any fucking way – make you walk on air. It typically doesn’t leave you feeling hopeful or playful or anything other than fearful.
Maybe that’s why I like being around Tate.
I like his energy.
I like being so close to something so…full of life.
Full of love waiting to be had.
He arrives at his next table to greet them yet steals another glimpse of me before he does.
The blush he’s given is welcomed by another wink, and the instant he delivers his attention to his new guests, I divert mine to my date who has been talking the entire time down at his menu as opposed to me.
His outward rambling regarding whether he should have salmon or steak for dinner is not so slyly interrupted by me. “Do you like sports?”
Lars lifts his head to answer. “What?”
“It wasn’t on your sheet.” Or if it was, I don’t remember reading it. “Do you like sports?”
“Golf.”
Oh, fuck me, my least favorite?!
Daniel at least enjoyed baseball, which I don’t love but could tolerate.
“Any others?”
“No.” He shakes his head on a shoulder shrug. “Not really.”
When there’s no effort to ask me about what I enjoy, I release a loud inward sigh of acceptance.
This date is going to suck.
And it’s not a cheap suck.
Matchmaking services, especially at this level, are way fucking more expensive than a subscription to a stupid app.
Our evening progresses painfully slow. I’m fairly certain I’ve had periods that have gone by faster and less uncomfortable than this. Hell, if it weren’t for the drinking, crabcakes, and exchanging of suggestive looks with Tate every free second that he gets, I honestly would fake sick to flee the scene of this crime, which is now what I’m calling our “date”.
Because it is a fucking crime to spend this much time with someone you can’t stand just to steal a few moments with someone you can.
The arrival of our check sparks another unfortunate conversation about who can pay and should pay for things in relationships. And while I’m not opposed to being wined or dined or having a cave man call me “mine”, I am absolutely against the notion that I “never” should pick up a tab.
Never?
Why not?
Why can’t I spend my money to treat the one I’m with the way they do me?
I skip continuing the irritating conversation, allow him to pay, and end the evening by pretending to go to the bathroom rather than my car after insisting he can go on ahead and that I’ll just walk myself out. Thankfully, there’s no kiss nor any attempt at a kiss, and his promise to call feels as forced as the rest of the evening.
Once I’m convinced, he’s gone, I slip back out of the bathroom to head for the front doors yet stop to stare at my table where Tate is collecting the bill. The disappointment of not having received my number isn’t only palpable, it’s painful. For a guy who is always smiling, always so seemingly cheery, to see such a disheartening expression is heartbreaking.
And that heartbreak gets my heels hastily clicking across the floor.
And that same heartbreak has me snatching the bill fold out of his hand.
And it’s the idea of never being the one to hurt him again that pushes me to scribble my phone number on the back of the receipt without a word.
Worst case scenario?
He never uses it, and I have to find amazing crabcakes somewhere else, a feat I will battle head on if I must.
Best case scenario?
He teaches me how to smile a bit more while I stay committed to making sure he never smiles any less.
Chapter 2
Tate
I am a lucky bastard.
I know this.
I’ve known this all my life.
How many others get to have this much happiness and excitement without sacrificing so much of themselves first?
How many other people get to simply wake up and have so many of their dreams just instantly fulfilled?