Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
The first article is about the chicken dance.
Fuck.
Champagne turns sour in my mouth. I set my phone down and rub at my sternum. A hard knot formed there weeks ago and won’t go away.
“Are you going to tell me what was so important that you paid for my upgrade?” Pen doesn’t look up from her book, but I know all her attention is on me.
“For the record, I would have upgraded you regardless. What kind of . . .” Friend? No, we’re not friends. Childhood relations? That sounds horrible. “. . . person would I be if I let you sit back there when I’m up here?”
A small smile curls her pink lips. With her oval face and shining brown hair shot with red-gold flowing around it, she’s a Botticelli. “You’re stalling. Sweet, but stalling.”
Sweet? I never.
“I decided I don’t want to talk about it now. We’ve got nearly six hours together.”
Pen sets the reader face down on her lap and turns toward me. “Thought that far ahead, did you?”
“Obviously.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Maybe it’s worse.” I pull at my collar. It’s a T-shirt but it smothers all the same.
Pen simply stares. She’s always done this. Looked at me with solemn brown eyes, so glossy and big, and fucking serene. I’d never been able to stand it, knowing that if I ever truly looked back, I would be lost.
I pick up my glass and swallow the dregs.
“You know,” she says, “this past day and a half is the most we’ve ever spoken to each other since we were little kids.”
“What? No.” I mentally try to recount all our past conversations. “It can’t . . . well, hell. It is, isn’t it?”
She nods, and a lock of hair slides along her cheek. My fingers twitch.
“That’s kind of shit, Penelope.”
Pen shrugs. The tiniest movement of her shoulders.
I clench my hand. “We’ve known each other our whole lives. We should have talked more than this.”
“Well, we know each other, but we were always going different directions, I suppose.”
And why was that?
I clear my throat. “Still.”
Her gaze lifts and collides with mine. I feel it in my solar plexus. As strong as any blindside hit. A soft flush colors her cheeks. Penelope is shy. I’ve known this in a vague way, but I didn’t truly know until now that being at ease with others doesn’t come naturally to her. Pair that with my instinct to retreat anytime I encountered her disapproving expression, and you have one big, uncomfortable void.
“We didn’t really have any reason to talk,” she adds.
Another hit. I resist the urge to rub my chest again.
Glancing at her book, I take a breath and start. “I hate reading books. My mind wanders two sentences in. But I love audiobooks. I don’t know why it’s different, but I can let go and dive into the story when it’s audio.”
Her brow knits for a fraction of a second, then clears. “I’m the opposite. I read every chance I get but if I try to listen to audio or a podcast? Poof! I’m already gone.”
My grin is wide. “What’s your favorite book?”
Her nose wrinkles. “That’s like asking your mother who her favorite child is.”
“I know that’s me, so . . .”
“Whatever gets you through the day, August.”
I ignore the dramatic eye roll, even though it’s cute as hell.
“Okay, then. Favorite genre?”
“I like romance, fantasy, thrillers, mysteries . . . Depends on the story.”
“Huh. Me too.”
“Even romance?” She sounds highly dubious.
“Would you like me to discuss details?”
A sweet blush rises over her cheeks. “No.”
I chuckle at her quick reply. I like that blush and want to see more of it. “You sure? Because a man can learn a lot from—”
“La, la, laaa.” She puts her hands over her ears. “Not listening.”
With an exaggerated sigh, I move my seat back to get in line with hers. “Okay, okay. On to the big question. Anime?”
“Of course.”
“Dub or no dub?”
“No dub. Dubs are awful.”
“Agreed.”
She wings a brow. “I’d have thought you’d like the dub since you hate reading.”
I shrug. “My loathing of the dubbed voices overrides having to read the subtitles.”
“You are both cultured and reasonable.”
Laughing, we take it from there, talking about everything and nothing until the captain comes on the speakers to announce landing preparations. Pen, who has become totally relaxed, smiles over at me. It’s like sunlight at the end of a long tunnel.
“You never said what you wanted to ask me.”
“Oh, that.” I buckle my seat belt. “I wanted to know if you’d marry me.”
Seven
Pen
I don’t remember landing. I’m not even sure how I got from the plane to baggage claim. My brain is stuck on pause. A screeching freaking halt. Because, what the fuck? How dare he? We were getting along so great. I had been feeling good—like I was floating, basking in the sunlight of his regard. August was funny, engaging—the guy I’d seen glimpses of my whole life but never really met. And suddenly there he was, just as I’d dreamed he’d be.