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)
I set my drink on the counter, but in the process I accidentally place it on a small stack of mail. Moving it aside, it’s then that I notice an unfamiliar name on a piece of correspondence: Sloane Sheridan.
Same last name.
Does she live with a family member?
An ex, perhaps?
Sloane could easily be a male or female name.
As I watch Margaux fawn over her gifts, I find my curiosity piquing by the second.
“What are you doing this Friday night?” I ask.
“What’s that?” She glances my way, her smile fading.
My question was crystal clear. She had to have heard me.
“This Friday,” I repeat myself. “Are you busy?”
Her pretty face twists slightly as she peers to the side, seemingly deep in thought. “Um, I don’t think I have any plans . . . Why do you ask?”
Rolling my eyes, I offer her a playful smirk. “I want to take you to dinner.”
She begins to speak, but I continue, feeling the need to offer an explanation, given my previous stance on not wanting to date anyone.
“I owe you a do-over,” I say. “An actual do-over.”
Her full lips press flat. This time I have no idea if her speechlessness is a good thing or a bad thing.
“I thought you said you weren’t ready to date?” she asks.
“I did say that,” I say. “And I’m not ready. I just . . . I like spending time with you.”
Her mouth forms a slight circle, though no sound escapes.
My admission must have shocked the words from her lips, but it also shocks the air from my lungs. I release the breath I’d been holding. Who am I right now? All I wanted was to drop off some paintings. I never planned on asking her on a date. This was never my intention.
Now here we are.
Margaux eyes the paintings before returning her attention my way.
“I’m sorry,” she says, placing her palm against her forehead as she releases a nervous laugh. “I’m just really . . . I wasn’t expecting this. At all. You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
“So is that a yes or a no?” I ask. “I promise you can’t hurt my feelings. I’m basically Teflon at this point in my life.”
Her lips tease into a charmed smile that soon turns conflicted, as if she’s at war with herself on the inside. But the more she hesitates and delays her answer, the more I find myself silently willing her to say yes. They say you always want what you can’t have, and maybe it’s simple psychology at play here, but I want to see her again.
I don’t want to drop off these paintings and carry on as if Margaux Sheridan no longer exists.
The key chain . . . the apartment building . . . the love of Halcyon . . . the way she finds her way into my thoughts at odd hours of the day . . .
It has to mean something.
“I want to . . . ,” she finally answers, though the tone of her voice makes me think there’s a but coming.
A disclaimer.
A reason.
An excuse.
While I can’t remember the last time I was turned down for a date—it had to have been long before I met Emma—the sting of rejection is already coursing its way through my veins. Regardless, I maintain my best poker face.
“I’d love to get to know you better, Margaux,” I say. “But I’ll understand if the feeling isn’t mutual.”
Her shoulders deflate, and her pretty face tilts to one side as if to offer a silent apology.
“I’m sorry.” She says the words I saw coming a mile away. “Can I think about it and let you know?”
In my book, a maybe is worse than a no.
If she gave me a no, I could lick my wounds and go back to business as usual. A maybe instills a sense of false hope, and there’s nothing worse than wishing for something you know only has a 50 percent chance of coming true.
“Of course,” I say. Tossing back the remains of my whiskey, I place the tumbler by the edge of her sink. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SLOANE
“How do I look?” I do a spin in front of my sister Friday night, finishing the move with jazz hands and a cheesy smile because I feel like an actress playing a part in an off-Broadway production.
Once again, Margaux has convinced me to go on another date with Roman . . . though I’d be lying if I said I was disappointed about it this time.
Conflicted, yes.
Disheartened, not in the least.
This time feels different. There hasn’t been a looming sense of dread hanging over me all day or the air of nervous anticipation coloring my thoughts. I feel no different now than if I were about to have dinner with a friend—but with a side of baby butterflies in my middle.