Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“No,” Margaux says without pause. “If he goes back to Theodora and tells her I turned him down after I gave her permission to contact me, it’s going to make me look like a liar. And the last thing I need is to give Franklin a leg up on the whole promotion situation. He’s such a kiss-ass.”
I’ve listened to my sister rant and rave about this new guy more times than I can count over the past year. I’ve never met him, but I’m just as invested in him not getting promoted as she is. He’s a schmoozer. A wheeler and dealer. I’ve worked with people like him before, and they’re skilled manipulators, promotion thieves.
“Take a deep breath,” I say. Trotting to the kitchen, I return with her bottle of pinot noir and top her glass off. “It’s going to be fine. If I have to spend more time with him, I’ll just be as boring as I was before, and he’ll lose interest eventually.”
Margaux looks a little green around the gills, only this time she can’t blame it on leftover sushi. Shoving her glass aside, she says, “I can’t drink any more of this. Just the smell of it is making me nauseous now.”
I take her glass to the kitchen.
“I’m texting him your number,” she declares when I return. “And I’m sending you his number as well, so you’ll know it’s him when he texts you.”
“Got it,” I say when my phone dings. “Just let me handle this whole thing. Don’t you have a work trip or something coming up? Don’t you have to pack soon? Aren’t you leaving, like . . . tomorrow?”
“Yeah, damn it. How’s this going to work? If he asks you on a second date, you can’t go while I’m out of town. If he says something to Theodora about meeting up with me, she’ll literally know something’s up. He doesn’t know I have an identical twin, but she does.”
“I’ll just wait until you’re back from Salt Lake City,” I say with a casual shrug. While I’m every bit panicking on the inside as much as she is on the outside, I can’t let it show. If I’m worked up, it’ll only make her even more worked up.
A worked up Margaux is a miserable Margaux.
Remaining calm is in both of our best interests.
“You’re going to have to pretend you’re in Utah when you text him,” she reminds me, as if I’d forgotten.
“Obviously,” I say. “Go pack. I’ll order some takeout. We can hash everything out after we eat.”
Not that there’s anything left to hash out. All I have to do is be dull and pretend I’m going out of town on a work trip, but I know Margaux will sleep better knowing we’ve discussed this whole thing extensively.
A few minutes later, I’m in the midst of placing a take-out order from Top Thai when a text fills my screen: It’s Roman. Can you talk?
This guy isn’t wasting any time . . .
I text him back: I’m in the middle of something right now. I’ll be around later though.
I don’t want to seem overly eager about this on the off chance he interprets it as any kind of interest in dating him.
I prefer to talk on the phone rather than text. Okay to call you after I put my girls to bed? Around eight or so? he writes next.
I send him back a yellow thumbs-up emoji—an attempt to be casual, if not intentionally cringey. The more I can turn him off, the better. Though I’m still perplexed as to how he could possibly be into me after the forgettable night we shared?
Talk to you then, he sends back.
After his inexplicable send-off Friday night, I can’t imagine what he could want to discuss over the phone. And speaking of that—what modern human being prefers phone calls to texting?
Nothing about any of this makes sense, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t completely and utterly intrigued.
I check my watch and calculate that it’ll be a little over two hours until I’ll have some answers.
His call comes at exactly 8:04 p.m.
Heat creeps up my neck as I clear my throat and stare at his name on my screen, a name that looks as out of place as it feels.
As much as I’m sure Margaux would love to be sitting next to me, supervising every word that comes out of my mouth, it’s probably better that she’s not. Last I saw her, she was shuffling into the hall bath lugging a box of matches, a Diptyque Baies candle, her phone, and the June issue of Vogue. I heard the bathtub running next, which was soon followed by the faint scent of lavender bubble bath wafting out from beneath the door.
“Hello,” I answer his call in my friendliest yet most neutral voice.