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)
“Give it up,” I say, flicking its baby blue pom-pom. “It’s positively balmy out.” The sun is shining, at least.
“And that’s why my breath is half ice particles?” To prove a point, she purses her lips, blowing a breath of air like a kiss.
Lucky air.
“Wait till February,” I retort. “Then you’ll know what cold really is.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I’m cursing them. Beside me, Ryan falls quiet and stares at her feet.
“It’s a nice neighborhood, isn’t it?” I try again after a minute or two.
“Let’s see if you’re still saying that when we get back and you’ve been towed.”
“Nah, not today. I’m feeling lucky.”
She glances around at the houses, a mix of redbrick and white stucco, which I’ve always thought look like old-fashioned Christmas cakes.
“Looks like a pretty pricey neighborhood,” she says, glancing at a street sign. “The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea,” she says, eyebrows raised and a touch of hoity-toity in her voice.
“I know. Can you believe they let the likes of me walk the streets?”
“You think they don’t like nice guys around here, huh?”
“Well mannered, not nice.”
This time, she refuses to look my way.
A few minutes later we walk under the green-and-gold canopy of a tiny hole-in-the-wall Italian bakery.
“Pastries for breakfast?” Ryan says. “Do you have a secret sweet tooth?”
“They do great coffee here,” I say in lieu of telling her the truth. That I have a hankering for the sweet saltiness of a girl called Ryan. They also have something I hope she’ll like. Something that Clodagh might like too. Maybe I’ll get her takeout and drop it off for her after school.
The bell above the door chimes as I push it open. It’s not a café, just a bakery. No tables and chairs. Not that it matters, as we have another destination.
We join the short line, Ryan like the proverbial kid in a candy store, her fingers pressed against the glass pastry case.
“What do you want?” I murmur, bending so my head is almost at her shoulder.
“A girl. I’m thinking it has to be a girl.”
I give a delighted little laugh, caught off guard by her candor. By the moment and where her thoughts are right now.
“But that’s not what you meant.” She turns her head and gives a playful roll of her eyes.
“No, but that’s a bit more important than your breakfast order. Why a girl?”
“I don’t know how boys work,” she says, turning back to the glass.
“I seem to remember differently,” I say, pressing my hand to her hip. It’s a brief touch, and she doesn’t move away from it, but maybe she doesn’t notice because of her coat.
“What can I get you?”
I glance up at the twentysomething fella in a green apron. “A cortado, please, mate. And . . .”
“A cappuccino. Decaf?”
“Make them both decaf,” I say.
“Matt, you don’t have to—”
“We’re in this together.”
“You gonna give up whiskey too?”
My expression twists, conflicted.
“You don’t have to do that either,” she says, amused.
“Anything else?” the bakery bloke puts in, his tone bored.
“May I please have one of these buns filled with cream?” Ryan presses her finger to the glass.
“Maritozzi,” he says, more North London than Italiano.
“That’s what you’re having?” I feel my brow furrow.
“Yeah.” She glances my way questioningly.
“That’s what you want?” The words escape without thought. And Ryan’s expression? It’s not much impressed.
“You brought me to a bakery for breakfast, so don’t think you can give me a hard time for my food choices.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to tell me about the risks associated with gestational diabetes.”
“No!” I say, backpedaling quickly. “I just thought you might’ve wanted zeppole.”
“They have zeppole?” Her eyes widen, then dart to the baker. Sales assistant. Whatever.
He nods and moves down the counter, tongs hanging over a row of pretty pasties swirled with cream.
“That’s zeppole?” Her tone is doubtful.
“Yeah.” The bloke frowns and snaps his tongs: Yes or no?
“With raspberries and custard?”
“Yeah.” He still sounds bored.
“Wow, y’all’s zeppole is way fancier than the ones I’ve had before.”
“We’ll take a zeppole,” I interject with a chuckle. Y’all’s? Ryan’s not from the South. Is she?
“Zeppola,” he corrects, monotone. “That’s one. Zeppole is multiple.”
“Yeah, all right. Thanks for the Italian lesson.” Fuck’s sake. You try to do something cute, and this is what you get for your troubles. “I tell you what. Give me a half-dozen box and a couple of the pistachio pastries.” What a miserable fecker. Me, not him. It’s not like I was expecting cartwheels, but I wanted this to go better than it has. I’m a fucking try-hard.
We move down the counter to pay and wait for our coffees. I glance down at a tug on my sleeve.
“Thank you.”
My heart lifts a good inch from its cavity. “It’s just breakfast,” I murmur, all pleased anyway.
“Not for breakfast. Thanks for remembering.”
“I don’t know if anyone has ever told you,” I say, pressing my thumb to her chin. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”