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)
I lean over to look, and my cheek presses against his denim shirt.
“Is Little Italy on this map? I’ve heard it’s really cool.” I’ve also heard there’s a Christmas shop, and the holidays are my favorite. Any and all holidays, including the made-up ones, like Sweetest Day.
He looks down at the sandwich in my hand, then up at me. “Whatever the lady wants.”
I laugh happily. It’s so hard to take him seriously when he has that goofy mustache stuck to his upper lip.
I take another bite of sandwich and close my eyes. “Mmm, dude. This is so good.”
“Did you just call me dude?”
I mean. Yes?
But not on purpose. “Is that bad?”
Andy goes quiet a few moments while he decides.
Finally he shrugs. “What guy wants to be called dude by a pretty girl?”
Um.
Excuse me, did he just give me a compliment? Without my prompting or fishing for one? Out of the blue while I’m stuffing my face and have cheese oozing out the side of my mouth?
Is he . . . ?
Could he be . . . ?
Is Andy flirting with me?
I have no idea how to respond without sounding foolish. I should be better at this, for the love of God—I’m designing a damn dating app!
“So. Harlow. What do you like doing for fun?”
“I read. Does that count?”
“Do you think it’s fun?”
“Obviously.”
“Then, yes, it counts.”
Good. Because reading is one of my hobbies, nerdy or not. “Do you have a favorite kind of ice cream?”
Andy considers this. “Not really. I don’t love plain chocolate or vanilla, but I’ll eat anything else.”
“Interesting . . .”
“Plain ice cream is boring.”
“Yeah, I guess.” It’s not my first choice, either, but the fact that he considers it boring says a lot about him as a person, doesn’t it? “I’m partial to cookies and cream.”
“Really? Eh.”
He sounds so unenthused, I let out a laugh.
“So.” Andy gets serious. “What did you think when you saw me at the elevators yesterday?”
“You mean, what did I think when I saw you pale as a ghost and dripping with sweat because you were about to toss your cookies?”
“Sure.” He laughs. “If that’s how you want to put it.”
“I was thinking you looked sick.”
“But were you secretly glad you won our bet?”
I shrug. “We didn’t actually have a bet because I didn’t think I would see you again.”
“Good point.”
“But.” I give him the satisfaction, since he’s fishing for information. Or compliments. Or something. “I was definitely shocked to see you standing there waiting to get on the elevator.”
I have a feeling that’s what he was looking for.
I give him a sidelong glance. “What were you thinking when you realized it was me getting off the elevator?”
“I was thinking, Oh shit—I’m going to shit my pants and she knows it.”
I hold a hand to my heart. “That may be the realest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Wow. That’s sad, kind of.”
Cannot argue with that. “It is.”
I open my lips to say more, saved by the ringing in my pocket, and I know it’s rude, but I pull out my phone to see who’s calling.
Dad.
His timing is terrible.
I ignore the call, stuffing the phone back in my pocket, but it rings again.
Shit. What if something is wrong?
When he calls back a third time, I hold my cell to show Andy the screen. “It’s my dad. Let me get this.”
He grins and nods.
I hit accept and press the phone against my ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“Harlow?” Dad shouts, repeating my name several times. “Where are you? It sounds like you’re standing in the middle of a street.”
“I kind of am in the middle of the street. I’m in New York, remember?” I press the phone firmly against my ear, struggling to hear his voice, fighting against the sounds of traffic.
“Shit, sorry. I should have checked your location first. I thought you were going to be home today.”
“Me not being home wasn’t going to stop you from calling,” I tease, glancing at Andy. “I’m in the middle of Times Square. Doing one of those touristy bus tour things.”
“Times Square on a Saturday?” Dad asks. “Ooh la la, aren’t you fancy.”
“I’m with . . . I’m with a friend, Dad, did you need something?” I’m not trying to come off as rude, but I can barely hear the man. I also can’t help but notice that when I say the word friend, it gets Andy’s attention, and now he’s turned to face me so he can eavesdrop.
His brows go up. I can see them beneath the low brim of his hat and above his sunglasses, curiosity radiating from his nosy little body.
He wiggles that dumb mustache again.
“What kind of friend?” Andy mouths to me, and I nudge him to be quiet as my father asks the same exact damn thing.
“What kind of friend? A male friend or a female friend?”