Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“You’re gorgeous.” Without thinking, I take her hand and press my lips to her knuckles, like I’m the earl of Crompton eight generations ago.
She laughs at the gesture, and I can’t help but laugh too. What are we doing? I feel like a kid. All the jittering in my stomach has been pushed out by joy and warmth and happiness.
“To dinner,” I say, reaching out a hand. She slides her palm against mine and I feel something. I can’t quite put a name to it, but it’s an easy, light comfort. That’s how it’s always been with Kate, even when I first saw her singing show tunes and introduced her to my family.
“I bet you really wanted to go somewhere other than the Golden Hare,” she says. “You’ve eaten in the pub a lot recently.”
“We’re not going to the pub.” Before she has the chance to panic, I add, “But we are staying on the grounds of the estate.” I guide her down toward the back of the house.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“I thought a picnic would be nice,” I say.
She squeezes my hand. “Really? That sounds wonderful. I know the perfect spot.”
“I’ve set up a couple of things. I think you’ll like the view.”
We round the corner of the house and the lake comes into view, along with the temporary gazebo I’ve had erected. Only three sides are open, with the side facing the house covered—my modest attempt at privacy. Little good it will do, since the entire world seems to know about our date.
“What’s this?” she says. She tries to catch my eye, but if I look at her and see her smiling as wide as I think she is, my heart might fucking combust. So I keep my gaze focused forward.
“I thought you might enjoy dinner down by the lake.”
“That’s a wonderful idea.” As we get closer, she sees the flowers decorating the roof of the gazebo. “Are they from the garden?”
I shake my head. “No, but I managed to track down the same types of flowers. Or Molly did. My idea. She executed.”
“Vincent Cove, you’re quite the romantic.”
Under the gazebo is a table set for two. The table decoration is an elaborate floral display among the glass and china.
“This is…beautiful. I should say, even more beautiful. The lake—this view—it’s my favorite place in Crompton.”
“I thought it might be. The Crompton Instagram page gives you away.” I pull out her chair and she sits.
“I suppose it does. But I’m not sorry.” She sweeps her hand across the table, taking in the gazebo and the lake. “This is perfect.”
I take a seat opposite her. “Is that why you don’t like to leave? Because it’s so beautiful?”
She looks a little embarrassed, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. I just want to know everything about her. “You’re probably used to much more glamorous places, right? Which one is your favorite?”
I don’t know if she’s deliberately trying to change the subject, but I’m not going to press her. “I like getting to know a new place. I like figuring out the coffee shops, which parks are the best to run through, when a place gets started for the day. Like in DC, it’s insanely early. New York is a little later. Arizona, much later. In each city, the air always smells slightly different and the sun sets in a different way. I guess I just like all the sensory inputs.”
“Is it New York that has your heart?” she asks.
“Wherever I lay my hat…” I say.
“So nowhere feels like home to you? What about your aunt and uncle’s house?”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “Well they’ve moved since I first stayed with them as a kid, but I like hanging out with them, for sure.”
“But it’s not your safe space?”
The word safe echoes in my head. I turn it over and silently repeat it to myself.
“Vincent?”
“Sorry, um, no. I don’t think I have a safe space. I don’t really get attached to places.”
“Oh,” she says. “So you move around a lot?”
“Wherever work takes me.” It had occurred to me to give up having any kind of home base entirely. I could just live out of hotel rooms. It’s what I do most of the time anyway.
“Were you an army brat or something?”
It’s not the first time someone has mistaken me for an army brat. If only the explanation was that simple.
“Or something,” I say.
“You moved around a lot?”
Lucky for me, our conversation is interrupted as the waiter brings two tequilas and two glasses of champagne. Just to cover all bases.
“But you always sit at the same table at the Golden Hare,” she says, smiling at me. “Maybe that’s how you make yourself feel at home—you create routines and patterns in ways people normally wouldn’t. When normally people would go home to the same city, the same flat, the same people.”