Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
And that was a very valid point.
Chapter Fourteen
VANCE
Nothing cured a hangover like greasy diner food. And as the scent of fried bacon floated up from my plate, I was thankful as hell I’d discovered this place when I’d studied in Paris during college.
“You’re from Alabama, right?” Blake asked, dumping syrup over her pancakes.
I must have given her a “what the fuck” look because she half-rolled her eyes before stabbing a piece of pancake.
“I stalked your personal social media account before I blackmailed you. Which, by the way, I’m judging you for putting ‘Roll Tide’ and a football emoji in your bio. Millennial.”
Judging me for my bio? She would. “I went to the University of Alabama, and I’m not a millennial.”
“You’re close enough.”
“Like you can say anything. You have a blue flower in your bio…”
“So, you’ve stalked me, too?”
“After you tried to blackmail me, yes.” It was a lie.
I’d looked her personal account up after she’d punched me. Much to my surprise, she only had three posts. One of her and Margot. One of her in her cap and gown at her college graduation. And one of her and a man I assumed was her father.
“Anyway… the point of my asking was because I’ve always wanted to go to Alabama.”
I could honestly say that was the first time in my life I had ever heard someone say they wanted to go to Alabama. Not that it was a terrible place. I had loved growing up there, but compared to New York, it was boring. The state boasted a handful of tourist sights: the Space and Rocket Center, an iron ore statue of the Roman god Vulcan, a massive water tower in the shape of a peach, and a billboard off the side of I-65 that read: “Go to church or the devil will get you.”
“Let me guess, you want to see the peach water tower?”
“The what? No.” She dabbed her napkin to her mouth. “I’ve wanted to go ever since I watched Talladega Nights as a kid. It seems quaint.”
“You realize they filmed most of that movie in North Carolina?”
She dropped her napkin to the table, a deep frown setting on her face. “Don’t ruin my idea of Alabama for me.”
“I’m not the one who ruined it. The directors did,” I said.
A text buzzed on my phone. “If it makes you feel any better, they absolutely filmed the scenes at the racetrack in Alabama.” I swiped my device from the table and read Theo’s text.
Dude.
Please tell me this is that hot chick from your office.
Almost as soon as I’d clicked on it, music blasted through the speaker, followed by video footage of Blake’s antics from the previous night, auto-tuned to a Whitney Houston song. “What the fuck…”
“Oh, yeah.” Blake shoveled another forkful of syrup-covered pancake into her mouth. “That.”
Is that you doing the worm in the background? Why are you doing the worm, man?
I went back to the video. I could barely make out the shadow of my silhouette. Theo had a point. My trying to yank up my jeans looked like the worm, which I would gladly take over the alternative.
I shot off a response, crammed my phone into my pocket, then met Blake’s gaze from across the table. “I’m not going to lie. It’s funny.”
The focus of her blue eyes lifted from the table, landing on me.
“It kind of is…” And the soft smile that crept onto her face made me feel like I’d just won—a lottery would be too cliché, and nothing about how her smile made me feel was cliché. It was like the feeling I thought I would get if I’d won a lifetime supply of organizers. Bliss.
I downed the rest of my coffee. Wanting to fuck Blake was one thing. It was male and primal. Even wanting to date her, fine. But her smile affecting me enough to make me think those thoughts when we hadn’t even kissed—that was something else entirely.
We left the “diner” and took the metro over to Père Lachaise.
Blake’s eyes had lit up when she’d grabbed a map at the entrance and proudly informed me that we were about to enter the most-visited necropolis in the world. I’d bet anything she’d been waiting all day to use that word in a sentence.
Everything about graveyards made me uneasy. And yet, there I stood half an hour into our self-led tour, taking a photo of Blake looking all solemn, hands clasped at her front a few feet away from Jim Morrison’s grave.
“This seems… wrong,” I said, handing the device back to her. “You realize normal people do not take selfies in front of dead people’s graves.”
She walked away from the aged tombstone. “That was a total pleonasm. Only dead people have graves. And it wasn’t a selfie. You took it.”
“I’m sorry.” I followed her down the well-shaded path. “You lost me at pleonasm.”