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)
Thomas is already here. I see him before he sees me, which is a pleasure, because my man is drop-dead gorgeous. He’s angled into a shadowed corner, not quite hidden, but not on display either. Black wool sweater, collar high enough to half-cover his jaw, and his hands—both of them—clamped around a glass of iced tea. There’s a plate with an untouched croissant, and a mug across from him. When he finally looks up, it’s as if he’s expecting me. His eyes find mine instantly, bright blue, and in that split second the whole world shrinks to the distance between us.
I feel the shiver all the way down, nerves fizzing. It’s the kind of butterflies that you get when you first meet someone attractive, but in my case, I’ve been dating Thomas for a while now. How lucky am I? To still feel what I feel after all this time. I walk to him, steps slow, and see how his gaze never leaves my face, tracking every inch of my approach.
He stands as I get to the table, which should look old-fashioned or awkward but doesn’t. He towers over the room, over me, but he doesn’t reach for my hand, doesn’t lean in for a kiss. He just looks at me, drinking me in, until I sit. When he lowers himself back into the chair, it’s with the same masculine grace that’s always captivated me.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is soft, but not shy.
Thomas smiles, just a flicker at the mouth, nothing like the wolfish grins he gave me in private. “Hi, sweetheart.” His voice is lower than usual, almost hoarse. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you today.”
His words make my heart pound because again, we’ve been dating in secret for a while now, and our souls are absolutely entwined. Yet it’s hard because now I literally live with his daughter in an off-campus apartment. It’s difficult for me to slip away unnoticed, and when I do, I make up excuses that sound lame, even to me. I remember the last time I tried to sneak out to meet Thomas.
“Are you really working this much?” Mary Kate asked when I said I had to cater another event.
“Oh yeah,” I fibbed, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “The location is far too, so I thought I’d just stay overnight with a friend.”
“Who?” Kayleigh asked, her brow scrunching. “Do we know them?”
“No, because it’s someone I cater with,” I answer lightly. “Bye now!”
The girls nodded, but I could tell they were suspicious because it’s summer, traditionally a slow time for the school. Yet I’m always working events, so it seems a little fishy. Ah well. A girl can only do so much. With a sigh, I wrap my hands around the latte waiting for me. The ceramic is hot, almost scalding, but I hold on until my knuckles pale. Thomas watches this, his own hands curled tight around his glass, thumb stroking the rim in a restless loop.
“I miss you too. And thanks for the coffee,” I say, raising my cup.
He nods. “The joe is terrible here,” he says, with a twitch of amusement. “But the ambiance makes up for it.”
I take a sip, and he’s right—the coffee is acidic, thin, more like battery acid than anything else. But I keep drinking, if only for something to do with my hands.
Sunlight streams in through the window. A couple in the far corner murmurs in French, so softly the sound dissolves into the hiss of the espresso machine. The record skips, then restarts. Time feels slow and sticky, like it’s resisting our presence.
“Have you been waiting long?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “I like to watch the weather.” His gaze drifts to the window, then back to me, as if I’m more interesting.
There’s a rhythm to this, I realize. A dance of silence and small talk, of watching and being watched. I let it play out, sipping my latte, feeling the air between us flex and contract.
After a while, I say, “You look tired.”
He shrugs, the sweater pulling tight across his shoulders. “I flew in this morning. London was a disaster.”
I want to ask why, but I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about work. He wants something else, something quieter. I tuck my hair behind my ear and look down at the table, studying the grain in the wood, the ring where his glass has left a mark.
Thomas reaches out, slow and deliberate, and touches my hand—just a single fingertip, then all five, spreading across my knuckles. His hand is warm, rough with the fine callus of someone who lifts weights regularly. The contact is so small and yet so overwhelming that I freeze, unable to move.
He lets his hand linger there, then withdraws. “I missed you, Andie,” he says, very quietly. “I really mean it. More than I thought I would.”