Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“‘Drive along the coast in a convertible,’” he reads aloud.
“I will of course be wearing a scarf that will dramatically fly away on a gust of wind. Just like Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. My gran used to love that film. And I mean, where would we be without metaphors regarding the fragility of life and the importance of living in the moment?”
The frown he gives me is lukewarm at best. Like he disapproves of the idea but doesn’t see any actual harm in it. “‘Eat at a Michelin star restaurant.’ Any in particular?”
“I imagine it will largely depend on what I can get into on such short notice.”
He looks up. “You crossed out ‘Cut own bangs and dye hair blue’?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just don’t know how it would look. If I do die and they decide to have an open casket, it could be a disaster.”
He says nothing for a time. Just stares at me.
“If you’re going to be judgmental, you can leave,” I say, legs crossed and glass of wine in hand.
“Sorry. ‘Axe throwing’ has a question mark next to it?”
“I’m not sure about that one. I can be a little clumsy.”
He picks up a pen and crosses the idea out. Fair enough. “‘Stay up all night with someone special until the sun rises. Go skinny-dipping. Wear a ball gown to the opera. Attend a polo match. Designer shopping spree.’”
“I’m open to re-creating any scene from Pretty Woman. It’s one of my mom’s favorites. The women in my family have great taste in films.”
“What’s yours?”
“What’s my what?”
“Your favorite movie,” he says. “You’ve told me your gran’s and mom’s. But you haven’t told me yours.”
“The Shape of Water. It’s so romantic but weird too, you know?”
“I don’t like your chances of finding a fish man to woo in the next week.”
“Me neither.”
He just nods. “The rest of these all seem reasonably doable, however.”
“For someone with your resources perhaps. It might prove a little trickier for me. I have no car and the lotto check won’t clear for five days.”
He selects another handwritten document from the table. “‘Drink absinthe and dance in the rain.’”
“Of course, those two aren’t mutually exclusive. I checked the weather report. It doesn’t look promising, but you never know.”
“‘Milk a cow’ has also been crossed out.”
“Time constraints. I can’t do everything.”
“Right,” he says. Then his brows start to rise. “What have we got here?”
“I don’t know. What have we got where?”
“‘Have great sex.’ Interesting. Very interesting.”
“You just had to pick up the piece of paper with that on it, didn’t you?” I scramble out of my seat and attempt to rip the piece of paper out of his hand. Of course, he holds it high over his head. The smirk on the bastard’s face makes me want to growl. “Give it to me, Alistair.”
“Now you say my name properly. Though I’m saddened to see you forgot your manners. Where’s the ‘please’?”
Given the chance to climb a ridiculously hot and hard-bodied man, I always thought I would be more than happy to rise to the challenge. But it is in fact more difficult than it looks. My poor sore hip doesn’t appreciate it, for one. And this T-shirt bra is simply not up to all my jumping around. As much as I try tugging on his arm, it doesn’t move an inch. Trust him and his stupid bulging biceps to ruin everything.
“Fine. Have it.” I retake my seat with a sniff of disdain. Salty suits me. “I don’t care. I am an adult. You will not shame me for having a healthy sex life. Or attempting to have one, anyway.”
A moment later he sits too. “Where are you intending to find this great sex, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I mind.”
“Your ex wasn’t up to the job, I take it?”
I pick up my glass and swirl the remaining wine around and around. Class and sophistication—that’s me. “Do you remember when we were at the bar last night and I started asking personal questions and you refused to answer?”
“I remember you saying answering a question with a question is obnoxious.”
“Look at you, dancing so skillfully on my last nerve. Bravo.”
His smile is fleeting. There and gone in an instant. “My mother made me take lessons.”
“What? Dancing?”
He nods. “Along with etiquette and some other nonsense.”
“Did you enjoy them?”
“Not particularly. It was a lot of memorizing forks and waltzing.” He downs a mouthful of beer. “I preferred being outside playing rugby.” And that is when his guard goes back up. You can see it in his eyes. He sits up straight and frowns. “I should be going. I only wanted to check that you were okay. Thank you for the beer.”
I hate the idea of him leaving. Let’s not examine why. But I have a sneaking suspicion that if he walks out now, I won’t see him again in this life. Which would be sad. “I, um, used to work after school in the café my mom managed. It didn’t leave much time for sports or other stuff. But I got free cake.”