Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“No. Bad, Elaina,” I whisper, slapping my own hand before forcing the smile from my face. “One of you desperately wanting a kid and the other hating children with the passion of a thousand white hot suns is a dealbreaker. It would be dumb not to call it quits.”
But I’m not sure my heart is listening.
And honestly, I was annoyed by the kids at Coney Island, too. Surely, Hunter would have more patience with a cute, well-behaved child.
“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “Just enjoy the now. The now is now, and the now is good.”
It is good.
It’s great, actually, a fact Hunter proves by emerging from the bedroom looking like a fine-ass snack in a deep blue dress shirt and navy slacks that pair perfectly with my dress. “We look good together today,” I murmur, admiring our reflection in the mirror above the entry table as we wait for the elevator.
He glances at the mirror, gaze warming. “We do.”
“You know what that means,” I say, a wicked grin curving my lips.
He laughs. “Yeah, I do. Two selfies. Two, that’s all you get. Try for more than two, and you’re going to end up in the family restroom at the theater, with your dress up around your hips while you take your punishment.”
“Oh no, not another spanking,” I say, my bottom lip pushing into a faux pout. “Whatever will I do?”
He shakes his head. “Trouble. You’re trouble, woman,” he says, even as he takes my hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
I follow him into the elevator, feeling seen.
And adored.
And…maybe something more than adored.
I peek at his profile as the elevator whisks us toward the ground floor, wondering if it’s too soon to call it love.
“I called ahead to have Katie help Mom down to the lobby,” he says, checking his watch. “I figured better to head out a little early, in case there’s traffic in midtown.”
“There’s always traffic in midtown. That’s why it’s the worst,” I say, earning a grin and another hand squeeze.
“Look at you, talking like a real New Yorker.”
I beam. “Just wait until you hear me complain about the subway delays. I’m getting really good at that.”
He laughs as we exit the elevator and head toward the town car waiting for us outside. Across the park, at Margaret’s building, Charles, the Sunday doorman, has clearly been waiting for us, and wheels Hunter’s mom out in her wheelchair just moments after we pull up to the curb.
She looks more tired than she did Friday night at dinner. The shadows under her eyes are deeper, and her movements more careful, making me think today must be a bad pain day.
But her smile is bright as ever as Hunter helps her into the car, settling her into the bench seat facing our own.
“Don’t you two look swanky,” she says, her gaze flicking back and forth between us as the driver eases into traffic. “What a handsome couple you make. You look more like movie stars than entrepreneurs. I’m going to need a picture of you in these clothes to show the ladies at bridge at the senior center.”
Turning to Hunter with a grin, I say, “Of course. We would love to have our picture taken, wouldn’t we, baby?”
“You’re the devil. Satan herself,” he says, making both of us laugh.
“He’s always hated having his picture taken,” Margaret says, shaking her head. “I never understood it. I mean, if he were homely, it would be different, but he’s always been handsome.”
“He’s a weird one,” I agree.
“Takes one to know one,” Hunter says, nudging my knee with his.
In midtown, the theater district is already bustling, despite the early hour. Sunday brunch crowds mix with tourists and theatergoers, creating a crush of humanity as we head toward Seventh Avenue. As we exit the car, a street performer plays saxophone on one corner, the music floating above the traffic noise, as two people in gorilla suits amble toward Times Square and a man in overalls shouts something about union-busters from the shadows of a nearby loading dock.
Ah, New York…
So chaotic, so wild, so exactly what I didn’t know I needed after a lifetime in a sleepy small town.
“I used to bring Hunter to shows when we first moved to the city,” Margaret says as we slide into the line heading into the theater. She leans heavily on Hunter’s arm, but seems to be doing okay so far without the wheelchair she insisted on leaving behind. “We didn’t have much money. But back then, they’d let you in to see the second act for free if they had room. We saw the endings of so many shows. Remember?”
“I blame that for my lack of skill with story structure,” Hunter says, handing our tickets to the usher at the door. “I have no idea how stories start, only how they end.”