Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
We pause at the crosswalk, ignoring the waft of trash carried on the unseasonably warm breeze. Late October tends to be transitional, but the city is definitely resisting the change of season. The light changes, and we step out, then dodge a DoorDash cyclist who plows through the light. Ryan squeaks and clutches my arm, all awkward smiles and embarrassment a moment later.
She’s fucking adorable in the moment. Not so adorable is the noise my stomach makes at the greasy scent of meat from a nearby food truck. I could go for a gyro. It’s been hours since I’ve eaten.
“I hope there’s food at this wedding. I’m so hungry I could eat the hind leg off the Lamb of God.”
“What?” Her answer gurgles with amusement.
“I need food.”
“There’s food. Six hundred dollars a plate, so I heard.” Her gaze dips to the slender watch on her wrist. “But I imagine the meal will be over by the time we get there.”
“Great,” I mutter. Not even a feed out of my good deed. Supposed good deed.
“If anyone asks, we should say your plane got in late. The timing might work in our favor.” The latter she adds under her breath.
“Not for my stomach. I’m half starved.”
“You don’t look it.”
Go ahead and call me a peacock, because I fucking preen under that verbal slip. “I’m a big lad,” I say, not bothering to make that sound like anything other than what it is. “I’m not cheap to and kind of hard to satiate, once I get going.”
“Is that so?” She’s amused. And she’s interested. She almost purrs.
I meant to feed, but that works too. If I was selling sex, I reckon I’d get paid pretty well. I’ve never had any complaints. Plenty of compliments. A few stunned looks. And several You’re the best I’ve ever hads. I think that old adage The quiet ones are always the worst has a ring of truth to it.
What the hell am I thinking? This whole thing is like something out of one of my sister’s romance books. The ones she keeps leaving like heavy hints around my house. The ones I’ve read that have provided very little help.
“Late works,” Ryan announces suddenly, pulling me from my musing. “It means less time we need to be there.”
“Right.”
“Also, the band will be playing, so people won’t notice your accent. Hopefully,” she adds with a flicker of consternation.
“I have an accent?”
“Sorry to break it to you.” Shielding her amusement, she glances at the window display of a boutique as we pass. “Maybe you should speak as little as possible, because it’s an accent that doesn’t work for the narrative.”
“And what is that narrative?”
“Well, Nathaniel, Nate, my imaginary boyfriend, is Spanish.”
“Like Carl from the Cuddle Collective.”
“Like Carlos from the Cuddle Collective. Who I’m going to smother with a pillow,” she adds quite happily.
“It’s sounding more and more like you’re the killer here.”
Her brow furrows.
“Nate. It’s not a very Spanish name,” I continue, not sure what’s made her frown. Maybe she’s vegan.
“I know.” Her shoulder lifts and falls carelessly. “The story kind of spun away from itself.”
“Our backstory?”
“We met last summer in Florence.” Her footsteps begin to slow until we’re both stationary and facing each other. “And you’re an artist, hence the sketches.”
“The ones you sent to yourself.”
“It was a good touch, right? Anyway,” she adds when she finds confusion and not agreement on my face. “You were working on the banks of the river.”
This is batshit crazy, right? “A Spanish artist? On the banks of the Arno?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why not an Italian artist?” Which would make way more sense.
“It just came out that way, okay?”
Touchy. “I can see that. Especially with a name like Nathaniel.” Why not Matías? Or Sebastien or Hugo? On second thought, if she’d used my name or one of my brothers’ names, this would be much weirder. “Was he—I—drawing or painting?”
“What does it matter?”
“I tell you what does matter. He’d fry in summer. Could be worse, I suppose. You could’ve picked the rainy season.”
Her brow furrows again.
“Have you ever been to Florence?” I ask.
“Of course.” Her shrug is pointed and prickly, though her answer is assured.
“It mustn’t have rained. You would’ve noticed the smell.”
“Florence smells?”
“All cities with ancient sewerage systems stink,” I reply, outing myself as a bit of an engineering geek.
She wrinkles her nose, and it’s fucking adorable. “I felt like shit in Florence. Does that count?”
“Don’t tell me. You went to recover from a broken heart?”
“You know how it goes.” She shoots me a quick look and a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes.
“A bit.”
I’m such a fucking liar. I’ve never had my heart broken, though I’ve had it bruised a few times. Or maybe that was just my pride, and the pain came from overuse—from putting myself out there too many times. The truth is, I’m a serial monogamist who’s never truly been in love.