Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Sure, Tom works. But there’s not much to tell,” I say, even though there’s too much. “I run a company. It’s a prediction market—a way for people to bet on the future. I like the odds. They’re clean. Math doesn’t lie to you.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a capitalist prophet. How original.”
“Guilty,” I say, and for once I don’t try to hide it. “But I didn’t come here to pitch you.”
“Then why did you come?” Her eyes are steady, and I realize she’s not asking to be polite.
I look at her, really look, and try to say what I mean. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Andie.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I want to lean across the table, drag her mouth to mine. Instead, I force myself to sit back, let her make the next move.
She thinks about it, then says, “You scare me a little.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I’m not sure if I want you to stop thinking about me. Or if I want you to never think about me again.”
I nod. “The same for me.”
She smiles, slow and sly. “Then we’re even.”
The crowd in the café thins. The redhead packs up her MacBook, the girls in sweatshirts leave with their blonde hair bouncing, and the staff starts wiping down counters, looking at us like we’re the last dogs left in the kennel.
I pay, leaving enough tip to make the barista’s night. We step into the vestibule, and the air outside has the cold bite of late winter trying to stage a comeback.
We stand there, two feet apart, neither of us quite ready to walk away.
I reach for the door, then stop. “Would you want to do this again? The right way, I mean? No more hook-ups in the back row of the theater, or in the library during a black tie event?”
Andie smiles coyly.
“But I loved the theater.”
I chuckle.
“We could go back.”
She laughs too, and the musical peal rings in my ears. She looks up at me, all defiance gone. “Yes,” she says, voice steady. “I do want to do this again.”
I nod, pulse hammering. “Then I’ll call you. Or text, if you’d rather.”
“Call,” she says. “Texting is for children.”
A laugh bursts out of me, real and raw. “You got it.”
With that, Andie smiles one last time and walks out, down the sidewalk, hair haloed by the orange streetlights, and for a long minute I watch her go, feeling the shape of her name in my mouth.
I stand there, hand still on the door, and think: this is how it starts. Not with a bang, but with a slow, perfect burn.
I want to say I’ll take it slow. I want to believe I can outwit my own instincts.
But the truth is, I’m already plotting every possible future with her in it.
And I’ve never been more certain that I’ll win.
9
SHE'S A PERFECT FIT
Thomas
Aurum is new money pretending to be old, a rooftop splurge perched atop the glassiest tower on Hennepin, trading on the lie that anyone in Minneapolis ever needs to eat above the eighth floor. There’s a ritual to places like this: the elevator climb, the microsecond of vertigo when the doors part and the city grid appears as a magnificent vista, the silent concierge who intercepts you with the same voice they use to announce royalty or airline delays. I’m ten minutes early, by design.
The hostess leads me past the open kitchen, where tattooed men in black aprons slice hunks of steak with surgical precision, and then out onto the terrace—clear-walled, climate-controlled, arrayed with white-linen tables like an art installation. Candles. Tiny live-edge slabs of cedar for bread plates. A scent in the air—smoke, cold ozone, and some high-end cologne from the table over. The skyline has already started its blue-hour fade, every window in the city flickering awake, a hundred thousand illuminated rectangles mapping out other people’s business.
I take the anchor table by the glass railing, back to the wall. From here, I can see everything: the servers moving like clockwork, the way the city is caught in the reflection of the windows, and—more importantly—the entrance.
The waiter brings me a Balvenie 21, neat, and then disappears with an efficiency I appreciate. I turn the glass in my hand, watching the golden scotch coat the side, and allow myself the smallest shudder of anticipation. I could say it’s the drink, or the view, or the exhaustion after a day of shuffling crises around like a hustler at a shell game. But it’s not. It’s her.
I glance at my phone once. Then again. I don’t text. I don’t need to. If she ghosts, I’ll just drink here until midnight, then drop three grand on dessert wine for the house and retreat to my apartment to lick my wounds in silence. But I don’t think she will.