Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“Surprise me,” I say.
He turns to the barista and orders two vanilla lattes, each with extra caramel.
“That’s a good surprise,” I say.
“Had a feeling you’d like it.”
When they’re ready, Lake carries the mugs to a table—the same one as last time, only there’s a different puzzle on it now. Instead of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Formica’s home to a puzzle of signs with sayings—hit the road, get your ducks in a row, two heads are better than one.
He slides a piece of a head of lettuce into the two heads are better than one section. I spot a duck’s bill and slot that in as Lake takes a drink, then gives an approving, “Damn this is good.”
I try mine. “It really is.”
But the hot beverage love fest ends there because this list is serious. It’s poignant. It’s full of hope—but hope that never came to be.
I overthink everything: the kiss in the car, asking Lake to be my plus-one, even my potential proposal in the twenty-four hours before it didn’t happen. All this overthinking has left me feeling a little jumpy, a little tightly wound. What would it be if I let go a little? If I stepped outside of my normal life and let someone else’s plans guide me?
“I should do this list.”
He squints, tilts his head. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
Spreading open the piece of paper next to the half-done puzzle I speak a little louder. “I think I should do this. Is that ridiculous?”
His answer is instant—stern too. “Yeah, it’s ridiculous.”
My brow knits. Why would he say that? Lake’s an athlete. He’s trained to take chances. This feels like a risk I should take. “Why is that ridiculous?”
It comes out like a challenge since, well, it is.
He sets down the cup with a decisive clink, his eyes locked on mine. “Because it is.”
I scoff. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He holds my gaze, his eyes darkening with frustration.
Well, I feel the same. I cross my arms. “It’s not ridiculous.”
He arches a brow. “It’s ridiculous that you said I.” He points to the paper but doesn’t touch it. He treats it like it’s a piece of art, something precious, something he doesn’t want to sully. “We should.”
We.
The word echoes. It vibrates inside me. I didn’t see that coming. Should I have? I take another drink, processing his reaction. He wants to do this too? What would that look like? Him and me tackling a list of date-like experiences? A bucket list of romantic wishes? My breath catches with excitement, but I swallow down a healthy dose of worry too. It feels dangerous.
He breaks my thoughts with a question. “Remy, why did you think I bought the dress? Like, right away offered to buy it?”
I meet his determined gaze, focusing on his questions, not the million running through my head. “Because you want to be a good fake boyfriend? The whole ‘be the best rebound ever’ thing?”
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he leans back in the chair and drags a hand through his now very short hair. “Because it clearly touched you. Because it matters to you. But also, we found it together. It’s like finding a wallet on the street. You’d try to return it, right?”
“Yes!”
“Or a dog who didn’t have a collar or tag. You’d help the dog, right?”
“Of course. I’d take him to a rescue. Or give him a home if he needed one.”
“The list is the same. We can’t return this list. We can’t give it back to her family.”
“And we can’t leave it undone.”
He nods a few times. “There’s only one thing to do with it. And maybe we weren’t looking for it, but it found us. We’re the guardians of this list now.”
My skin feels tingly. My heart, bubbly. Maybe this drink is going to my head. That’s the only explanation I have for why I say exactly what’s on my mind. “I thought you were something of a secret poet,” I say in a whisper, like a confession, “when we were texting the other day.”
He scoffs. “I’m not.”
“You say you’re not good with words. But I say you are. Everything you just said is…kind of soulful.”
He rolls his eyes, mumbling, “It’s the right thing to do.”
“You say you’re rude and you’re not. You’re sweet.” I spot another piece of the lettuce and attach it.
“Okay, now you need to stop.”
But I don’t. Apparently, when I stop overthinking I’m a little unleashed. “The last time we were here you admitted you were secretly sunshine.”
He narrows his eyes, then scans the pile of puzzle pieces. “I never admitted it.”
I lift the cup, not quite stifling a smile. “You didn’t have to.”
He snags a light green piece, adds it onto the one I just locked into place. “Enough of your poet theories. We have work to do,” he says, all stern and bossy as he leaves the puzzle alone. He pushes up the sleeves of his Henley a bit, revealing taut forearms, strong and sinewy, with a smattering of dark hair. And the owl, perched on a tiny branch, watching me.