AllFreeNovel
Share Us
As I leave my sister’s house and head home, I try to picture my future with Grant. Not the one he describes with the kids and the dog and the house in the ‘burbs and the Fourth of July cookouts and the family vacations to Disney with all the grandparents and cousins.
Only my mind refuses to conjure up a damned thing.
It’s all … blank.
12
Cainan
Six months ago, I’d be sending a drink to the strawberry blonde in the fuck-me heels at the end of the bar, the one who hasn’t taken her come-hither gaze off me since I walked in tonight.
But I’m a changed man—whatever the hell that means.
I order a double Laphroaig Lore single malt on the rocks and check my email on my phone. This place is busier than I expected for a Tuesday night. Then again, there’s a hotel next door with limos parked out front, so there must be some event going on. Limos in Midtown always bring foot traffic—tourists mostly. All of them lured like wide-eyed magnets in case they might see a celebrity they can tell someone back home about. Bonus points if they can snap a blurry, zoomed-in cell pic. Extra bonus points if it’s an anchor from The Today Show.
Someone takes the spot to my right.
I don’t bother glancing away from my phone.
“Pinot noir, please,” she says to the bartender. “Thank you.”
Her voice is velvet soft and honey sweet—with a hint of familiarity, too. A soft yet spicy perfume radiates off her jacket as she slides it down her arms and hangs it on the back of the stool.
The bartender places a stemless glass before her and then pours the red wine halfway to the rim, then gives her an extra pour. An inch maybe.
“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” The sound of a woman’s voice in my ear and the weight of a stranger’s stare captures my attention.
“I beg your pardon?” I don’t look up from my phone.
“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” she repeats her question, as if it’s perfectly normal to ask a complete stranger a random question.
I lift a shoulder, gaze still fixed to my phone screen. “I don’t do crazy things.”
“Sure you don’t.” She exhales, lifting her glass.
“I’m sorry, but …” I’m two seconds from asking her to leave me the fuck alone when I finally lay my eyes on her and all the oxygen is sucked from my lungs.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t speak.
I can’t fucking think.
It’s her.
It’s the woman from my dream.
She lifts her dark brows, peering at me through a fringe of even darker lashes. The sour-apple green of her irises glimmer even in the dim light of this Midtown tourist trap bar.
“You’re sorry but what?” she asks, blinking.
“I’m sorry, but … do I know you?”
She studies me, head tilting from side to side. “There is something familiar about you … are you on a billboard in Times Square?”
Her serious expression turns into a teasing smirk.
“I’m kidding. But only sort of. You look like a model. Or like you could be a model.” She hides her face in a sip of her drink. “I’m sorry. I’m making this weird. I’ll stop talking.”
Please don’t.
Please never stop talking.
My heart is two seconds from exploding in my chest as I search for the right words to suit this serendipitous moment, but I’m speechless, wishing I could press pause on this surreal reality long enough to wrap my head around it.
“I come here for work about once a month,” she says. “Here and Jersey. And I always stay at that hotel.” She points next door. “Maybe you’ve seen me in passing?”
“This is my first time here.”
And I only stopped in because I was on my way to my sister’s place on 72nd and needed to kill some extra time since she was running late.
She sips her wine, which is halfway finished already. Maybe she’s got somewhere to be.
I take in every inch of her from the freckle on her nose to the square line of her jaw to her nervous, bouncing ankle. My gaze shifts to her left wrist in search of the tattoo from my dream, but it’s covered by her blouse sleeve.
“Are you from around here?” she asks. Every word that leaves her pillowed lips sends tingles reverberating to every part of me.
“I am.”
“And what do you do?” She blinks twice. I could lose myself in those bright greens for days.
“Divorce attorney. You?” I ask.
“I’m an actuary.”
She doesn’t strike me as someone who sits behind a desk and plays with numbers all day. I suppose I pictured someone a bit paler. Someone in a boring, three-piece suit. Someone allergic to smiling. Zero personality.
“What made you want to become a divorce attorney?” She takes another sip.
“It’s a long and boring story,” I lie. I’m not about to tell her about my parents’ shit-show marriage. No one cares about that. Besides, I’m more interested in getting to know her. “You’re a lot younger than most actuaries I know.”
