Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
And now…
Now, it’s back to a plate of gray with extra sad sauce.
“Next!” the agent calls. The line creeps forward a few feet, but the couple in front of me is too busy arguing to notice.
“We should have taken the earlier train,” the man hisses, American accent sharp with frustration.
“I’m not the one who takes forever to pack,” his wife shoots back. “You should have done it last night, like I told you.”
He rolls his eyes as he mutters, “Because you’re always right. Jill is perfect and always right.”
“I am right,” she says, hurt creeping into her voice. “At least about things like this. That’s why you ask me to plan our trips and keep us on schedule. But if you don’t think I do a good job of it anymore, then we can—”
“You did a great job,” he cuts in with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m just stressed about missing the flight. And mad at myself for not listening to you last night.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m grumpy this morning, too. I’m not ready to go back.”
“Me, either.” He pulls her into a hug, oblivious to the dozens of eyeballs boring into his back, willing them to grab their suitcases and move along. “But we’ll come back soon. And next time, we’ll make it to that castle you wanted to see on the west coast. I promise.”
My throat tightens.
I want someone to hug me and promise to take me to a castle on the west coast.
Someone like Olly, who never rolls his eyes at me or treats me with disdain, even for a second.
No, he just lies to you and treats you like a loser who can’t succeed without her sexy British boyfriend pulling strings for her in the background.
“Well, isn’t that better than being a jerk?” I mutter beneath my breath.
“Next, please,” the agent calls again.
Jill, who is always right, and her moderately dickish husband finally move up.
So do I, but I’m no longer certain I want to be in this line. I am, for better or worse, completely straight, and most straight men are a pain—as Moderately Dickish has so helpfully reminded me.
Even the ones who don’t act like cranky, petulant children in line at the airport aren’t usually anything to get excited about. My best experiences with men have been steady, mostly fun friendships that petered out when my partner cheated or dropped the emotional ball. My worst have involved brushes with staggering emotional immaturity, insufferable entitlement, or deep-seated resentment of women.
A lot of straight men seem to loathe women, to feel threatened by us despite the fact that women are the ones who’ve spent thousands of years being subjugated, attacked, or un-alived by men.
Finding a decent partner is difficult.
Finding one who gives you pep talks, makes you laugh, and isn’t weird, selfish, or dysfunctional in bed is practically unheard of. Add in the rich, handsome, and highly successful parts, and Oliver is a unicorn.
Hell, he’s something even more rare and magical than a unicorn.
He’s a unicorn holding a four-leaf clover during a solar eclipse, under a sky of dazzling northern lights, during a once-in-a-lifetime planetary alignment.
And he might be my best and only shot at a once-in-a-lifetime love.
But the lies! The uptight, stressed-out voice in my head demands.
But is she stressed out because the lying is really a dealbreaker or because falling in love this fast is a threat to everything the rational, list-making side of my personality holds dear?
I’m about to do what must be done to get to the bottom of this—namely, get out of line, find a quiet place to sit, and make a very detailed list—when a sharp bark of laughter echoes through the air.
It’s followed by another, higher-pitched giggle, and behind me, an excited murmur ripples through the crowd.
Probably another celebrity sighting. London airports are apparently full of them. There were two soccer players and a pop star here when I first arrived last week. I had plenty of time to witness the fuss everyone was making over them while filing the report on my luggage.
The murmuring gets louder.
More laughter.
Then two security guards rush past our line, radios crackling.
I turn, growing concerned, just as a Cockney accent rises above the crowd. “Aw, let him be, copper! Can’t you see the bloke’s in love?”
“Good Lord,” a woman gasps. “Is he in his smalls?”
Pushing up on tiptoe, I look where everyone else is looking, my heart lurching when I see the source of all the uproar.
It’s Oliver.
Jogging through the terminal in a Christmas sweater and…nothing else.
I mean, he’s wearing his boxer briefs, but no shoes, no coat, no suit pants or jacket. He’s basically half naked in the airport, holding what looks like a large piece of a cardboard box, while confused-looking security guards trail behind him.
Every cell phone in a hundred-meter radius is instantly out and aimed his way, documenting what appears to be the complete mental breakdown of the fifth in line to the throne, hot on the heels of the Lion King breakdown of the first.