Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
“Audiobook credit?” Of course he doesn't know what that means.
“You can sign up for them. It's like a deal to get one book cheaper each month.”
“How many books do you listen to a month?”
“New? Well,” I laugh. “Just the one.”
“But you'd listen to more if you had these credits?”
“I suppose, but I enjoy listening to the ones I already own again. I'm a big rereader.” He leans back in his chair, all his attention on me, his eyes soft around the edges.
“I don't believe I have ever reread a piece of fiction before. Do you enjoy them that much?” He's appearing genuinely interested.
“There is a bit of comfort when you go back to a book you love and listen or read it again. You might know what's coming, but it feels safe, and sometimes you really just need that comfort. I even know some people who are end-readers. They don’t like the anticipation of the ending not being what they’d hoped for. I mean, I don’t do that, but to each their own.”
“You don't feel safe.” He sits up, leaning toward me now.
“Not in the physical sense,” I laugh, pulling my cup closer. “It's emotionally safe. You get lost in the pages and pretend that world is yours.”
“An escape.”
“Basically.”
“You want to escape your own life?” His brows pull together.
“It can be a lot less lonely.” I say this before I consider my words. That's going to make him think I'm in a shitty marriage. Which is not a lie. I mean, I’m really not in a marriage at all in the normal sense.
Charlie is far too easy to talk to, or maybe I'm dying to talk to anyone. It could be a bit of both. Either way, I don't want to stop.
Chapter Eight
WICK
“Where’s your book?” she asks, changing the topic. She doesn’t want me to ask her questions about her lonely life with her husband.
“My phone,” I improvise. I don’t have a book. My mind was full of competing thoughts as I watched my wife get ready for a date with another man on the security cameras.
Now I’m sitting across from her with a container of baked goods she prepared while she talks about her shitty marriage. I can’t even be mad because I put her in this situation, in that big apartment with the only contact being my assistant.
“Should we read, then?” she suggests.
“Do we have to?” I just want to hear her talk.
“It is supposed to be a reading date.” She stops herself. “I mean outing. Not a date. Since I’m married.” Her explanations spill forth, but the slip happened. She doesn’t consider herself taken. “I guess I never asked you, but no girlfriend? No significant other that might be bothered with you sitting here?”
“None. I’ve never been into dating.” I wouldn’t know the first thing about it. “I didn’t go to college and was too poor in high school. Too poor most of my life for women.”
Her eyebrows shoot upward. “You don’t look poor. All your clothes are expensive.”
“I was poor; I’m not now.” And now that I have money, there are women who want the lifestyle I can buy them, but I’m not interested. Chasing deals and closing them was more exciting for me than any woman. Until I saw Annabelle. Now the paperwork piles up while I watch the security cams and meet her for coffee.
I should tell her I’m her husband and we can drop this whole act. We can go home together where I will watch her in person instead of through the security cams. “Anna—”
“I know—” She cuts herself off. “You first.”
“No. What were you going to say?”
“I know that I said I was lonely before, but it’s because it’s a new situation for me. Being married, I mean. It’s going to take time to get used to, but I’m glad to be married.”
Glad but not happy. We’ll do these reading dates until she finds me indispensable. Then I’ll tell her that we’re already married, and we’ll live happily ever after.
“What do you enjoy doing besides reading and baking?”
“Isn’t that enough? These”—she taps the container—”took me all morning.”
“They’re perfect.”
“You haven’t even had one.”
“Half of eating is with your eyes. Or that’s what I learned watching Chef’s Table on Netflix.”
Her eyes light up. “I love that show. Did you see the one with the Buddhist—”
“Monk?” I insert. “One of my favorites. I want to go to the temple and try the food because how can it be that tasty but they don’t use any garlic or onions?”
“I know, right? But everyone says it’s amazing. Did you see he’s going to be on the Black and White Chef competition show?”
“No. We should watch it together.”
“I’d love that!” She claps her hands. The movement causes sunlight to catch her big diamond and cast rainbows on the table. Belle sees them and sits back in her chair, suddenly realizing what she agreed to.