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)
Stella leans in, mouth at my ear: “You are so fucked. In the best way.”
I can’t even argue.
We stand there, arms linked, watching the city change color. Behind us, the party swells and crests; ahead, the future is as wide as the river and twice as deep.
And for the first time in forever, I don’t want to run.
I want to stay.
I want to see what happens next.
After the last glass is emptied and the last guest gone, the penthouse echoes with its own afterimage. The ice in the bar trough is mostly water now; the white linen on the tables is wrinkled and spattered with gold; the air is strange, half-lit, full of the smell of sugar and citrus and something else—maybe the ozone of anticipation.
I wander, bare feet on slick tile, feeling the apartment exhale with relief. The party was a performance, and now the set has gone dark, the actors scattered to rideshares and late-night diners and, in Mary Kate’s case, apparently, to the halls of her stepdad’s mansion. Kayleigh finally got her text from her stepbrother, and Simone and her hot professor ducked out an hour ago, her arm looped through his. Even Stella is gone—vanished to an afterparty, or maybe a rendezvous with one of her two men, but she leaves a note for me, scrawled on the back of a cocktail napkin: “You got this, boss. Don’t let my dad chicken out. xoxo, S.”
The living room is quiet, a few lamps still on. The city beyond the glass is a galaxy of office windows and sodium vapor, the bridges burning pale in the night. I find Thomas at the window, his back to me, the cut of his shirt a hard line against the soft drift of city glow. He has his hands in his pockets, looking every inch the mogul, but when he hears me pad in, he turns and his face is younger, unguarded.
“Hey,” I say, voice small. It’s all I can manage.
He holds out an arm, and I go, settling into the curve of him, my head on his chest. There’s a faint whiff of aftershave, and under it, the raw salt of his skin. His heartbeat is steady, unhurried. I close my eyes and let the hum of the city fill the quiet between us.
“You survived the party,” he says, amused.
“Barely. Your daughter is trying to get me to join her next bet.”
He laughs, the sound a rumble under my cheek. “She’s a terror.”
“She’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. “I’m glad we’re all on good terms again.”
We stand there for a minute, maybe five, watching the city. I feel the air shift as he turns to look at me, and when I meet his eyes, they’re so blue they resemble sapphires, but also soft, almost shy.
“I got you something,” he says, and for a second I think it’s a joke. But he means it.
He breaks the hug, moves to the bar, and pours two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. He hands it to me, pours another for himself, then leans against the ledge, arms crossed.
I take a sip, and it burns all the way down, sweet and mean.
Thomas watches me, then looks away, as if rehearsing a line. When he turns back, his jaw is set, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
“So,” he says, “you ever heard of the Writer’s Room on Fifth?”
I think, then shake my head. “Is that the place next to the butcher shop? With the weird old-school sign?”
He nods. “That’s the one. Used to be a medical office, now it’s rented out as workspace. I got you a membership. Desk, bookshelves, north-facing window, coffee on tap. No one allowed in but you.” His eyes flick away, embarrassed. “I figured you’d want somewhere… I don’t know. Yours.”
I stare at him, glass forgotten in my hand.
He shifts, nervous. “You can use it or not, but I thought—well, you’re a writer, Andie. And you need the quiet, sometimes. And I know my place is big, but you deserve a space of your own. Separate and apart to concentrate.”
My throat goes tight, but I force words out. “I can’t believe it. You did this for me?”
He shrugs, but there’s a tiny blush on his cheekbones. “I want you to have it. You’ve earned it, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you for graduating, and with honors too. You’re going to be a star.”
I set my glass down, stepping into his space, so close he has to look at me. I take his hand, winding my fingers through his, and the heat of him is real and electric.
“You’re an idiot,” I say, but I can’t keep from smiling.
He growls, all teeth. “Takes one to know one.”
The silence blooms between us, heavy and soft.
Then, from nowhere, he produces a tiny brass key from his pocket. It’s nothing—small, plain as a penny, on a keyring so cheap it’s barely gold. He drops it in my palm, the weight of it shocking.