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)
As we step onto the ferry, the wind tousles her hair, the smell of her perfume wafting into my personal space. I try not to inhale, because that would be weird.
“Did you know,” she says, “they say the Statue of Liberty is struck by lightning at least six hundred times a year.”
“What? There is no way.” Then, “How do you know this?”
“I was googling facts about it on the bus.” She laughs. “I wanted to say something impressive. To impress you.” Harlow glances up at me. “Did it work?”
“Actually, it did.” Not that she has to impress me. “How adorable that you were googling information. I usually do that after I’ve seen something.”
I’m a nerd like that, googling facts during historical movies or after seeing a landmark.
Harlow is cute and fucking fun to be with, and I’m enjoying zipping around the city with her, no plan, no fuss. She is the complete opposite of my ex-girlfriend, not that I’m stupid enough to bring up an ex-girlfriend, even if it is to compliment Harlow.
When we reach the island, I watch her walk, weaving through the crowds of people, heading toward the lifts for the top of the statue. She stops a few times, keeping track of me, not wanting to lose me.
Lose me?
As if.
“We need tickets,” she informs me when we’re near the front of the line, and I hold up my phone—I have us covered.
“Done.”
“Wow. I am so impressed.” Harlow grins, top lip hidden by the creepy black mustache sticking to her skin. Cheeks flushed from the heat, she’s cute and kissable and beaming at me as if I were the smartest dude on the planet.
Hardly.
I barely managed to get average grades in college, and if I hadn’t had a full-ride football scholarship, I most likely wouldn’t have gone at all.
Harlow and I get jammed into an elevator with a dozen other tourists, none of whom speak. I keep my head down so the brim of my ball cap covers the top half of my face, lest one of the dudes crammed in here with us give me a closer look and recognize me.
The last thing I need is my cover blown in a room full of people. Not that I’m lying to her about who I am, but I also haven’t been forthcoming—because it’s nice, and I’m enjoying being normal for the day, not being treated like a celebrity.
But I’ll be honest. Standing in line sucks.
And being in this elevator with a bunch of people sucks.
And if I were myself and the staff knew who I was, chances are we’d be zipping to the crown of this statue with an escort and no one else. And we’d be able to skip the lines.
Whatever.
This is cool.
I can pretend to be normal for a few hours without throwing a bitch fit—I’m not that much of a prima donna . . .
Fine.
I am.
A private elevator ride wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, if only to avoid the eye contact of the man standing across from me. He’s staring way too intently at the fake mustache stuck to my face, then back at Harlow’s mustache, and I can see his eyes going back and forth between us, trying to make sense of it all.
He thinks he knows it’s me . . . but he’s not entirely sure, and in two seconds he’s going to tap his wife on the arm in an attempt to casually draw her attention in my direction so she can confirm his suspicions.
I’ve seen it a thousand times.
Clearing my throat, I dip my head, wishing I’d had the energy to shave this morning—the stubble on my face is a dead giveaway, as I have a beard most of the time, and clean-shaven cheeks would have been a better disguise.
Harlow stands blissfully unaware beside me as my heart thumps wildly, not wanting this day to be ruined because someone recognizes me and has balls enough to interrupt me for an autograph.
I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet, but the day is young, and all it’ll take is one nine-year-old kid to spot me and my cover will be blown.
Chapter 7
Harlow
Dad: Are you alive?
Me: Of course I’m alive. Why wouldn’t I be?
Dad: Just checking in. I see that you’re finally done gallivanting around the city . . .
Me: Oh yeah, that’s right—you’re tracking me like I’m a teenager . . .
Dad: Listen, you’re my only daughter, it’s my job to keep you safe.
Me: I know, but there’s nothing you can do from Green Bay. I was safe, my friend is big and strong.
Dad: Who did you say this guy was?
Me: Someone I met in Central Park over the lunch hour yesterday. His name is Andy. He’s from the Midwest too, so he’s a nice, wholesome guy.
Wholesome guy? That’s laying it on a little thick.