Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Why don’t you stay with your grandmother when you’re in town?” I decide small talk can distract me just fine. I feel calmer now as we head toward Washington Square Park, both of us staring ahead and scanning our surroundings.
“She has her own life. I’ve got mine. I don’t want to intrude.” He scoffs. “Besides, I have a home here. I just don’t use it.”
I remember the West End apartment and steer off that topic. “Do you come to the city often?”
I’m just making small talk.
Or okay. Maybe I asked just for me.
“Once a month. Though I had a project to film in LA for the past few months that kept me away.” His eyes slit as he regards me with a pointed glance, as if he means for me to know his reasons for staying away.
I gulp and pretend I don’t notice the way his eyes fall to my lips for a hot moment.
“Your parents?” I press.
“Both passed away. Boating accident.”
I stop in my tracks, mouth hanging open and heart crushed. “I’m sorry,” I finally say. He accepts my words with a brief smile, and the way his eyes sadden tugs at my heart.
We fall silent for a while. I suppose I should have hugged him, but that would get him too far into my personal bubble. He’s already treading at the margins.
“I was obsessed with death as a teenager,” I offer.
“Why?”
“Because it scared me to think of losing someone I loved and of one day that person no longer… existing. I had a friend in school who died. She had frequent migraines and they discovered a brain tumor. We lost her so fast.”
I shrug. “After she died I could only think about dying. I would have school parties and see people laughing and I’d think, what are you all laughing about? We’re all gonna die someday! I kept waiting for it to happen. It wasn’t until I turned eighteen that I finally realized we’re all heading there and thinking about it won’t stop it. I realized you might as well live your life while you’re still alive.”
“So are you a hypochondriac or what?”
I laugh. “No! But I want to leave a good mark when I go.” I lean away from him and sigh. “I read this book, Remembrance by Jude Deveraux, about reincarnation and how we come back over and over and find our loved ones again. That made me feel better.” I narrow my eyes. “When’s your birthday?”
“April eighteenth.”
“Aries. Fire. That explains it.”
“So you think we’ve met before?”
“I sound crazy.”
“No. Just interesting.”
I laugh. “Well. The idea of souls knowing each other before is cute, in a way, but I guess knowing it will all end takes the fun out of it.”
“I think it makes it even better, makes every moment count more. Right now, this second”—he snaps his fingers—“just gone.”
“Way to kill my party, Ian!”
I push him away in mock annoyance, and he grabs me by the wrist and before I know it, he pulls me back to his side, breaking into my personal bubble.
Unsettled by the touch, I squirm free and regain one foot between us and tighten my hold on Milly’s leash.
“Tell me more about you,” I press.
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me what you do.” I sound eager, too eager, to know him. But to be honest, he sounds about as interested in me as I am in him.
“I’m a film producer. I own a couple of production companies—mostly those developing documentaries across the world.”
“Any kids?”
“Nope.” A slight frown creases his forehead and a short, cynical laugh rumbles up his chest. “Hell, I tell Gran that I’m not marrying again. Instead, I’m getting a dog or a big, fat cat and leaving my fortune to him and Milly.”
“Oh, come on!” I laugh—but only for a moment. “I’m sure you’ll find someone.” I look up into his eyes and there are shadows there. In those gorgeous onyx eyes. I want to hit the woman who put them there. “I don’t want you to die alone.”
“It’s not about wanting—you can’t choose your time of death.” And now Ian looks amused once again.
“But you can choose the way you’re living,” I counter.
He’s silent.
“I’d have loved for you to meet my parents.” He breaks the silence with that statement. And he almost seems as surprised by it as I am.
“I would have liked to have met them too.” I smile genuinely. Why is he giving me flutters again? This is supposed to be just small talk. Now we’re making imaginary introductions to parents.
“My mother would have liked you,” he says.
“I would have no doubt liked her like I do Mrs. Ford. Were they similar? She and Mrs. Ford?”
“They were alike. Like mother, like daughter-in-law, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry you lost them, Ian.”
“Me too,” he says, pausing to force me to look into his eyes. “And now I want to know about you.”