Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
"Stick to chasing models and buying fancy suits, Fenway," I told him, cool, cold even, trying to cover the churning discomfort of that truth in my stomach. "Psychoanalysis isn't your strong suit."
Unperturbed, Fenway shrugged one of his shoulders, his knowing smile suggesting he knew just how close to the head of the nail he'd hit.
"So would you like that drink now?" he asked.
"Oh, God yes. I will need three just to get through this plane ride," I told him, settling in, wondering how we were going to fill the unforgiving silence in our close quarters.
Luckily, after I got my drink, Fenway offered me mercy, reaching for a remote, making a television pop out of a cabinet, flicking around.
"Here we go," he said, leaning back as he put something on, drawing my attention to the TV.
An Affair to Remember.
I couldn't help but wonder if it was more than the fact that we had discussed the movie. If he was hinting at something. Something about the two of us. About what he thought was going to happen once we got to Bali.
What he didn't know was he was both right and wrong.
It would be an affair of sorts.
And it would be one to remember.
But it would only be real for one of us.
One movie turned into two. And then Fenway immediately put on a third as I shifted uncomfortably around in my seat.
"Fenway?"
"Yes, darling?" he asked, giving me that award-winning smile of his.
"Exactly how long is this plane ride?"
"This leg is about nine and a half hours."
"Leg. Meaning we are laying over somewhere?"
"I have tried to talk Josh into giving up sleep. Alas, he won't cooperate. We need to stop to fuel. Josh catches a little sleep. We can spend that time exploring the airport or getting rooms to rest as well. It would only be about six hours."
"Where are we stopping?"
"Qatar."
"Qatar?" I repeated, the name vaguely familiar.
"Near to Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. We will be near a sprawling metropolis like New York, only newer and shinier. But the airport itself has entertainment enough to hold our attention for hours. Last I was there, they were running ten art exhibits."
"Ten art exhibits? In an airport?" I asked, sure he was pulling my leg.
"Art exhibits. Prayer rooms. Massage, nails, facials, gyms, showers, and separate male and female sleep rooms."
"We could have an actual vacation in the airport," I mused, shaking my head at the very idea. I thought the airport back in Jersey was fancy with all its little food shops to buy snacks in.
At my comment, something different crossed Fenway's eyes, something soft and sweet, almost, I don't know, whimsical. Could people look whimsical? If they could, that was how he looked right then.
"We can even do some shopping," Fenway offered. "My treat."
"I already have my luggage."
"For Paris, I imagine. Not Bali."
"That's true," I agreed. I didn't even have a swimsuit packed. Or even appropriate shoes for a beach. "But I pay for myself."
"We shall see about that."
"Shall?" I asked, smiling.
"It's the proper word."
"Do you ever notice that a lot of times, 'proper' and 'pretentious' go hand-in-hand?"
"Do you ever notice you get prickly whenever I am being nice?" he shot back, surprising me once again, having previously thought he was the sort to avoid any sort of confrontation. "Who made you believe men are only nice when they plan to screw you over?" he added, tone getting deeper, more serious. In fact, everything about him had switched from lighthearted playboy to a cool, confident, somber man.
I took a breath, leaning forward a bit. "Every single man I have ever met," I told him, telling him mostly the truth. I knew a few good men. My brothers, their friends, Raven's husband. But let's just say they were few and far between. "Though, if it makes you feel any better, it isn't a sexist statement. Most people are kind to you when they want something from you. But men, almost invariably, only want one thing."
"And what do women want?"
"To know where another woman found a dress with sleeves, a pair of heels that don't give them blisters, a bra that doesn't feel like a torture device, for someone to finally recognize their thankless work day in and day out slaving away raising kids and tending house, to be paid the same as their male colleagues, to be able to walk down a street without worrying about predatory hands..."
"And they don't want sex too?" he challenged, brow arching up.
"Oh, we love sex," I told him. "But we don't need to be manipulative to get it."
"You think I am trying to manipulate you into sex?" he asked, tone cold.
"Wining and dining and private jets and airport shopping sprees and Bali vacations. You're trying to tell me you don't expect something out of all of this?" I challenged him.