Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
She’s wearing black, because she’s always wearing black, but it’s different tonight. A fitted coat nips at her waist, a scarf wraps loosely around her neck, and she’s got on those same boots with the silver laces. Her hair falls past her shoulders in waves, and she’s done something with her eyes that makes them look bigger, smokier. The silver rings are back on her fingers.
She looks like trouble, and she looks like everything I want.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Yes.”
A beat of silence stretches between us, and she seems to be waiting for something more. An apology, maybe. An excuse.
I don’t offer one.
“Well.” She pulls on her gloves, breaking eye contact first. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Would you prefer I pretend?”
“I’d prefer you have some chill.”
“Fresh out.”
She huffs in what might be a laugh and pushes past me into the hallway. I catch that scent again, dark flowers and midnight gardens.
“Come on,” she says without looking back. “Let’s see if you’re as interesting in public as you are lurking around jewelry studios.”
The F train is crowded this time of evening, packed with commuters and people rushing to early dinner reservations and others heading into Manhattan for the holiday lights. We stand near the doors, pressed closer than strictly necessary by the bodies around us, and when Hailey grips the overhead bar, I position myself between her and the rest of the car, blocking strangers from pressing too close.
She notices. I can see it in the slight tilt of her lips.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“What thing?”
“The protective thing. Standing between me and everyone else.”
“Force of habit.”
“Is it?”
I don’t answer. The train lurches, and I brace a hand against the pole above her head, leaning in to keep her from stumbling. For a moment, we’re close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the slight part of her lips.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“You’re welcome.”
We don’t talk for the rest of the ride, but she doesn’t move away, either. She just stands there in the circle of my arms, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, and something deep within me unknots slightly. This is real. This is happening. I haven’t ruined it yet.
Union Square is sensory overload. The holiday market sprawls across the park in rows of white tents glowing under strings of lights, and the smell hits first: roasted chestnuts and mulled wine, fresh pine and something sweet that might be caramelized apples. Music drifts from somewhere, holiday standards played on what sounds like an accordion.
People are everywhere. Couples and families and groups of friends wrapped in scarves and good cheer, moving between stalls selling jewelry and candles and soap and ornaments.
I hate crowds. Always have. Too many variables, too many sight lines to cover, too many places for threats to emerge.
But Hailey is already moving into the fray, her dark coat a beacon in the sea of red and green, and I follow without hesitation.
“I’ve never actually been here with anyone,” she says, pausing at a stall selling hand-poured candles. “Always meant to, but . . .”
“But?”
She shrugs and picks up a candle, sniffing it before setting it back down. “I tend to do things solo. I don’t really do people.”
“You’re here now.”
“I’m here now.” She glances at me sideways. “Jury’s out on whether that was a good decision.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I work well under pressure.”
Something flashes across her face. Not quite a smile, but close to one. “Military training?”
“Something like that.”
We drift through the market, stopping at booths that catch her attention. She lingers over old jewelry, turning pieces over in her fingers with an expert eye, then pauses at a display of antique books and runs her fingers along the worn covers. At a chocolate stall, she samples three different truffles and pronounces them “acceptable,” which I’m learning is high praise from Hailey.
I find myself watching her more than I watch the vendors. The way her face changes when she finds something interesting. The dry comments she makes about the more absurd offerings. The way she moves through crowds like water, always aware, always observing.
She catches me staring more than once but doesn’t call me out on it.
At a booth selling metalwork, I find them: silver earrings, delicate spirals that catch the light, simple but distinctive. They’re the kind of piece she’d choose for herself.
“These,” I tell the vendor before I can talk myself out of it.
Hailey appears at my elbow, eyes narrowing when she sees what I’m buying. “What are you doing?”
“Buying you something.”
“You can’t just buy me jewelry.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” She pauses, clearly searching for a reason. “It’s too much. We’re on a first date.”
“Is that a rule?”
“It’s common sense.”
“I’m not particularly common, and I’ve never been accused of having much sense.” I hand over my card before she can protest further.