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)
“Let’s do it.” I nod, having made up my mind. “We have breakfast. It’ll be fun to sit and watch the city pass by while we’re eating doughnuts.”
Andy does that gentlemanly thing with his hands, the nonverbal after you, so I can go through the round revolving door first, pushing on the heavy glass until I’m deposited onto the sidewalk.
The street is already coming to life.
It’s the weekend, so there aren’t as many commuters speed walking to work; instead, passersby are walking with their heads bent, eyes glued to their phones, coffees in hand, walking shoes on.
Lazy Saturday.
Andy seems to know the way, leading us down the sidewalk. We don’t say much as we walk, and once we’re at the light, he hangs a right.
We walk.
Walk some more.
And suddenly we’re at Times Square, the lights of the billboards bright and glowing and massive, even in the morning light. There are already hordes of people everywhere—tourists taking photos, selfies, watching the street dancers and artists as they set up.
It’s a spectacle.
I stare.
I didn’t make it to Times Square on my first trip here, but it’s more crowded than I would have expected at this time of day. I look to my right and see the Stardust Diner, line halfway down the block.
Wow.
We easily spot the tour buses, and Andy makes a beeline for the queue, taking his phone out of his back pocket and holding it toward the woman with the scanning device.
He already purchased tickets? Look at him go being organized!
I’m impressed.
We’re handed two pairs of blue earphones and two city maps and wait for our turn to enter. Andy avoids eye contact with the woman, nodding his thanks instead of telling her, and I notice that somewhere during our walk he slipped on his sunglasses.
He goes for the stairs on the bus, and I follow him up to the second level.
Walk behind him down the narrow aisle toward the back.
Glancing around, I see that we’re really high up. It’s pretty great, actually, and excitement begins to churn my stomach.
“I have to say”—I lean forward and talk over his shoulder—“this is way cooler than I thought it would be, and we haven’t gone anywhere yet!”
Andy plops down in the last seat, settling in, bagged breakfast in his lap. I take the seat next to him, our knees touching.
Unfolding the earbuds we were given, we get comfortable, the narrator’s voice already yapping away about Times Square and welcoming us to fabulous New York City. Andy’s leg nudges mine, which is to be expected since he’s a big dude.
Of course his leg is touching yours, Harlow—the guy is like . . . tall. And his shoulders are broad, and his chest is firm and . . .
Yeah.
All that. I bet it’s all firm.
All of it.
The wind blows a whiff of him in my direction; Andy smells like he’s freshly showered, cologne tickling my nose. Thank God he opens the breakfast bag so we have something to do, the smell of bacon drifting out, and if I have to continue smelling him, I might start flirting, and that would be a disaster.
I’m terrible at flirting.
The last time I tried batting my eyelashes at a man, my top and bottom lashes got stuck together because my mascara was clumpy.
He holds a snack in my direction. “Please tell me you eat bacon?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m from the Midwest, of course I eat bacon.”
I laugh, teasing, taking the bundle out of his hands; it’s warm and smells tantalizing. I unwrap it carefully to find a gloriously flaky croissant filled with eggs, cheese, and meat.
Nom.
I immediately sink my teeth into it with a loud groan.
“Oh my God this is heaven in my mouth.”
Andy watches, wide-eyed amusement on his face.
I think that’s amusement, anyway. Hard to tell with his eyes hidden behind those designer sunglasses, the ball cap pulled down over his brows. It’s his mouth that gives him away, his smiling, cocky smile, tipping up below that god-awful ’stache.
He wiggles his mouth when he finds me staring at it.
A few moments later our bus lurches forward, easing into traffic while I nibble on my breakfast, trying not to scarf it down. You know, trying to be a lady and polite but failing because I’ve already loudly groaned once and moaned at least twice, and I’m pretty sure bacon grease is dripping out of the corner of my mouth.
Cheese? That too.
Don’t know, really don’t care.
Andy has been given a glimpse of the real me: sassy, honest, real.
Hope he likes it.
He’s noshing on his sandwich, too, so it’s not like I’m dining alone, the world moving around us at a quicker pace than it had when we walked out of the hotel, our bus passing by Madame Tussauds.
A Wicked billboard.
Broadway.
Freaking Broadway!
Amazing . . .
“Where should we get off first?” Andy is studying the map with one hand, sandwich in the other, a free finger tracing the red lines of our route, all the stops numbered.