Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
"Couples know these things. If Victoria asks about your childhood pet, I need to know the answer."
"I had a goldfish named Mr. Darcy. He died heroically saving me from ... absolutely nothing. He just died."
Adrian makes a note.
"Are you actually writing that down?"
"Mr. Darcy. Goldfish. Died heroically," he repeats, completely serious.
I can't tell if he's messing with me or actually this meticulous. Both options are equally disturbing.
"We should continue this over lunch. I'm hungry, and I assume you are too," Adrian says. "There's an Italian place nearby I've researched."
"You researched restaurants, too?"
"I research everything."
"That must be exhausting."
He considers this. "Sometimes."
The drive into the nearby town feels different from this morning's drive out. We've crossed some invisible threshold, and neither of us quite knows what that means yet.
The restaurant is small, a charming Italian place with exposed brick walls and tables tucked into intimate corners. Adrian made reservations. Of course he did.
The hostess leads us to a corner booth, candlelight flickering between us. So romantic, but then I notice that it is an LED candle. Fake. We sit facing each other, and the waiter brings water, takes our drink orders. When the wine arrives, it's actually perfect—rich and velvety, not too dry. I'm not even a wine person since I prefer my ciders and champagne, but I admit this is good.
Adrian pulls a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket. Oh my God. He really is writing everything down. I'm torn between amusement and horror. "Are you serious right now?"
"Completely." He clicks his pen. "We need to know the basics. Favorite color?"
"That specific green on old Penguin paperbacks," I answer without hesitation.
"Allergies?"
"Seafood, particularly lobster."
He writes this down in neat, controlled handwriting. "What did you want to be when you grew up?"
"A librarian." I watch him write, finding it oddly endearing how seriously he's taking this. I hate that I find it endearing. "Your turn. Tell me about growing up."
He looks up, surprised. "Aren't you going to write anything down?"
"I just will," I say with more confidence than I feel. "Tell me about growing up."
Something about my confidence in remembering seems to touch him. He sets down his pen.
"Upper East Side childhood. Private schools, then boarding school from fourteen to eighteen." He pauses. "My father is Judith's partner, semi-retired now."
"And your mom?"
A shadow crosses his face. "Caroline. She died when I was twelve."
My heart constricts. "I'm sorry about your mom."
"It was twenty years ago."
"That doesn't make it not sad."
He looks at me as if surprised by the empathy. "She used to say I argued so well I should get paid for it. She was always a big proponent of, 'If you do something well, don't do it for free.' That's why I became a lawyer."
I smile softly. "She sounds amazing."
"She really was."
The candlelight softens his features, making him look younger, less guarded. I hate to admit it, and I'll probably never ever say it out loud, but I like this relaxed version of Adrian. He seems more human than a machine.
Our food arrives—gnocchi for me, risotto for him. Over garlic bread, we exchange relationship histories.
"Longest relationship?"
I feel defensive immediately. "Three months, sophomore year of college."
"And since then?"
"Nothing longer than eight weeks." I twirl pasta around my fork. "I got too focused on writing. Partners felt neglected, and I felt smothered. Turns out I'm better at writing love stories than living them."
"I've never been in love," he grimaces, "Not really."
"What about those relationships that ended?"
"Transactional. Convenient." He takes a sip of wine. "They ended because I prioritized work."
"So we're both disasters at relationships. We're like a match made in heaven."
"That's why this arrangement works. No expectations."
I study him across the table. "What do you do for fun, then?"
There's a long pause. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, then opens it again. "I read. I run. I..."
"That's it? That's your entire list?"
"I work."
I stare at him, horrified. "Adrian. This is tragic and really sad."
"What would you have me do? Book clubs on Thursdays and tea parties every weekend?"
"It's depressing. You run for fun? Who does that? The only way I'm running is if someone's chasing me."
"That, honestly, is so on-brand for you."
After lunch, I direct him to a small bookstore in the village that I discovered during my teenage summers. For a moment, I'm worried it's no longer there, but it is.
It's cramped and wonderful—narrow aisles, floor-to-ceiling shelves, organized chaos. My kind of place.
"Wow. This is ... extensive," Adrian whispers as we enter.
"This is paradise. Come on."
I'm on a mission, pulling books from shelves and piling them in Adrian's arms. Fiction, poetry, a graphic novel, and contemporary romance. His expression grows increasingly alarmed as the stack grows higher.
"I don't have time for leisure reading, Emmy."
"That's exactly why you need it."
I add another book to his stack. He's now holding seven books, and I have to stand close to add the last one, reaching up. My body is nearly flush with his, and he goes very still. I step back, feeling my cheeks warm. I hold up a contemporary romance with a shirtless man on the cover. "Read this. I dare you."