Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
A furry handlebar mustache is stuck jauntily beneath his nose.
Um.
Okay. I didn’t realize we were playing dress-up, but dang he’s cute.
Way better looking when he’s not dripping with sweat the way he was yesterday.
“Good morning.” He’s giving me a sheepish grin beneath that mustache, and as someone who’s a sucker for a crooked smile, I feel my insides go weak and pray that my knees don’t give out on me.
“Hi.” Guh. “Um, Andy.”
He looks as awkward as I feel, motioning toward the door. “I, uh—called down and asked if they could throw together some coffee to go, and a breakfast sandwich or two so we wouldn’t have to dick around trying to find breakfast. I’m not sure when things open around here.” He hesitates, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to say dick around, sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I smile. “I have a brother.”
“Older or younger?”
“Older, but only by a year—we’re Irish twins.” I haven’t seen Kyle in a really long time. He lives in Switzerland for his job, usually only bopping home during the holidays if he comes home at all. He loves it in Switzerland—met his wife there—so I doubt he’ll ever move back to the Midwest.
Which leaves me to take care of our dad, but that’s a story for later.
“My name is Harlow by the way,” I volunteer, beating him to the punch because he doesn’t know my name yet. “Harlow James.”
“I’m Andy.”
“It’s good to officially meet you, Andy.” I don’t know what to do with my hands. My Midwest manners dictate I shake his hand, but Andy has his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. “Do we shake hands now, or no . . .”
Stop talking, Harlow.
And just as I’m about to say something else that’s stupid, I’m saved from being more awkward by a woman appearing from the restaurant carrying a fancy hotel-logo-printed bag, presumably filled with the goodies he has promised.
“Breakfast is served,” she says with a smile, handing it to Andy.
My eyes bug out.
“You actually had the restaurant throw together a breakfast for us?” I don’t remember seeing breakfast sandwiches on the room service menu and can’t believe he had the foresight to feed me. “I thought you were joking. I would have been totally fine grabbing a street-cart breakfast sandwich or dashing into Starbucks.”
“Is this okay?” He has his nose in it, peeking inside. “I figured it would be fun to hit the ground running and wasn’t sure if you’d be hangry. Ten in the morning isn’t exactly daybreak. But if you’d rather go sit somewhere and eat . . .” His voice trails off. “Stardust Diner or something? It’s nearby.”
He named the famous diner where a majority of the servers are aspiring to get to Broadway, and sing selections from musicals while you eat. I hear it’s pretty cool, loud but cool. I’ve never eaten there but will save it for another day—it’s gotta be a tourist trap.
“No, this is great.” No guy has taken the initiative to order breakfast for me before without me hounding him about it first—not one I’ve been with romantically, anyway. Not that this is romantic or a date because basically I coerced Andy into spending time with me today, never thinking he would follow through.
When he smiles down at me, I can’t not look at his lips, even though he has that stupid mustache stuck to his face. They’re full and pouty, just the right amount of—
Stop internal dialoguing, Harlow.
Pay attention.
Focus!
“What’s the plan?” I chirp cheerily, my voice a tad too high pitched to sound natural. I clear my throat. “I know I said you owe me a meal, but what’s this you meant about exploring the city?”
Andy fiddles with the brim of his ball cap, and I catch him checking his reflection in the clear glass of the lobby doors. “Have you ever done one of those hop-on-and-off buses?”
“Actually, no.” Nor have I wanted to. It feels way too touristy, and I’m trying to blend in here and act local—not jump on a bus with one hundred other people and drive around the city, gawking at the sights. “This is only my second trip to New York.”
“Me either,” he says. “But I’ve always wanted to.”
Oh.
He has?
I muster up some excitement. I’m not sure what I was expecting us to do this morning, but a bus tour wasn’t it.
Picnic in the park?
Sure.
Going to the pier?
Sure.
Shopping? Hell yes.
I glance toward the revolving hotel doors, through which taxis and cars and buses can be seen on the street, the city getting busier and busier as each minute ticks by.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“If you’re cool with that?” His eyes are bright and sparkling.
Am I cool with that? Not my first choice. Still, I like to go with the flow, and since I have no ideas of my own, bus tour it is.