Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“Okay…” His tone isn’t disapproving or frustrated. It just sounds like an invitation for me to say more.
I continue. “For a start, I don’t think people generally think about their reasons for being.”
He grins and the corners of his eyes do that adorable crinkle thing again and the butterflies are back, warm and happy and doing loop-the-loops in my stomach.
“And I think that’s okay,” I add. “I think if we think hard about stuff like that, it’s…painful. And triggering. It’s much easier to deal with the stuff here and now in our day-to-day lives.”
“I don’t disagree. But tell me there’s more. I can see you have more to say.” I’m used to people listening to me—fame and money have bought me attention in that sense. It’s not the attention I find unusual; it’s how authentic Beau’s interest feels. Beau isn’t listening to what I have to say because I’m paying him, or because he’s trying to get me to write a song with him or guest on his TV show. I can’t be useful to him beyond being his companion on a walk through the park. He’s just here for me, not what I can be to him or do for him.
It’s exactly what I used to think about Matt.
“And then other people do think about that stuff, but what they want is just to be happy.”
We stop and Beau faces me, angling us so I’m looking away from any passing members of the public. I don’t know if it’s deliberate, but something tells me it is. It’s thoughtful and kind and I’m grateful to him. “You’re right. I’ve not thought about that. It’s probably why Jacob said no to coming to Norway with me. He just wants to be happy, and to him, that’s swimming in Hampstead ponds, hanging out with Sutton and working.”
“Maybe you just want to be happy too, but for you, that means having all these unique experiences.”
He playfully tugs on my cap. “You’re a wise woman, Vivian. A very wise woman.”
I feel like a proud pupil who’s pleased her teacher. Whether or not it’s true, I’m used to being called talented. Also bitchy, demanding, difficult and lucky. But I don’t think I’ve ever been described as wise before.
“You finished?” His hand hovers over my coffee cup and I hand it to him. His fingers brush mine and as they do, our gazes lock.
A beat passes before he takes both our cups to the trash can by the path and drops them in.
“So tell me what makes you happy? Apart from getting your own coffee.” We start to walk again and for a moment I expect him to take my hand in his before I remember we’re almost strangers.
“I love writing songs. I mean, thank god, because I can’t turn the songwriting thing off. Sometimes I feel like a human fishing trawler, forever cruising the ocean. I’m always seeing inspiration, feeling it—I always have a hook or a lyric in my head. It’s who I am, I suppose.”
He turns his head to me, eyebrows raised. “So you have a song lyric in your head at the moment?”
I laugh. There’s no way I’m telling him I’ve been singing My British stranger, my newfound something. My British stranger, I just need one thing in my head since he left me for work yesterday morning. “Always,” I say. “But no, I won’t tell you any more.”
He glances at my lips and then back into my eyes. “I won’t make you. Not yet.”
My cheeks heat and I look away. “Don’t you have to leave for work?” I ask, and we both stop walking.
“Shit.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I was having too much fun with you. Yup, I should have left five minutes ago.” He narrows his eyes. “Same time tomorrow?”
“You work on a Saturday?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, no. What about hanging out? That way I don’t have to rush off afterwards. Unless you have plans.”
I didn’t have plans, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure I wanted them.
“Erm, I’m not sure,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable. I don’t want to start swapping numbers or giving him my address.
“Hang on.” He drops his backpack on the ground, unzips it and pulls out a pad of sticky notes and a pen. He kneels down and scribbles something on the pad and then stands. “I don’t want to make this weird. I totally understand you’re busy and I’m just some guy you spilled coffee over.” He pauses and smiles, and I melt a little inside. “But I like you. I’d like to hang out tomorrow. If you feel the same, give me a call or drop me a message.”
He peels off the sticky note and presses it onto my hoodie as if it’s a name tag. I can feel his fingers on me long after they’re gone.