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)
And why am I overthinking this? It's not like I'm trying to impress Adrian.
Leaning against the brick facade of my apartment building, I check my phone again. 9:57 AM. He said he'd be here at 10:00, which means he'll arrive at exactly 10:00. Not 9:59, not 10:01. Wouldn't surprise me if he logs into the atomic clock to set his watch.
I fidget with the strap of my bag, trying to ignore the nervous energy buzzing through me. I talk when I'm nervous. I'm already mentally rehearsing conversation starters that don't involve shouting at him about Violet's will or commenting on how his jawline could cut glass and how he looks exactly like the heroes in my books.
At exactly 10:00, a sleek black Audi pulls up to the curb. It looks wildly out of place on my street, where most vehicles are at least a decade old and covered in bumper stickers declaring the owner's political stance, musical taste, or love of rescue dogs.
Adrian steps out, and I immediately regret every outfit choice I've ever made. He's in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that fits him perfectly, showing off shoulders that have no business being that broad. His hair is styled but not overly so, and he's freshly shaved, the skin of his jaw smooth and touchable.
Not that I want to touch it. Nope, I'm not even thinking it.
He opens the passenger door. "Good morning."
That voice. It should be illegal before coffee. Also, how weird would it be if I turned that into my alarm ringtone?
"Morning," I say, sliding into the car.
The interior smells like expensive leather, citrus, and newness. No crumpled receipts, no forgotten coffee cups, no random books tossed in the backseat. The complete opposite of my ancient Subaru, which functions primarily as a mobile book storage unit.
Adrian slides into the driver's seat, and suddenly the car feels very small. I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me—his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the clean scent of his cologne.
He navigates into morning traffic with ease, driving exactly as I expected—hands at ten and two, checking the mirrors before he changes lanes, signals correctly, and puts a decent amount of distance between our car and the one in front.
Silence stretches between us, both of us thinking too hard about what to say.
"Would you like music?"
"Yes, please. Anything but talk radio."
He taps the screen, and soft jazz fills the car. John Coltrane. I turn to him in surprise.
"John Coltrane? I wouldn't have guessed that."
"I contain multitudes," he deadpans.
My eyebrows shoot up. "Did you just quote Walt Whitman?"
"Even lawyers occasionally read poetry."
"Occasionally, meaning once, in college, under duress?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Twice. The second time was voluntary."
I can't help but laugh, and some of the tension dissolves. Adrian relaxes and loosens his grip on the steering wheel, and I notice his hands— again—the veins running along the back, a faint scar across his right knuckles. They're nice hands. Strong. Capable. I look away before he catches me staring.
I scroll through his music library on the infotainment display, surprised again. Classical, yes—Bach, Mozart, Chopin. But also Coltrane, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, and BB King. Some rock like Nirvana and The Who. Even heavy metal like Black Sabbath and Slipknot. Huh. Interesting. And who or what the fuck is... CamelPhat?
"Your music taste is ... unexpected," I admit, creating a new playlist.
"What were you expecting? Only classical compositions and podcasts about tax law?"
"Actually, yes."
He makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Adrian Hale laughing? I must be doing something right.
I catch myself staring at his profile, the way the morning light catches on his cheekbones.
Stop staring at his jawline. You have a jawline. Your perpetually angry neighbor from across the hall has a jawline. Everyone has jawlines. His is just ... particularly well-defined.
As we leave the city behind, the landscape opens up, and the trees begin to turn gold and crimson under the sun. The farther we get from the city, the quieter I become. My anxiety returns. I haven't been back since the funeral. The last time I saw the library, I was helping the staff cover the furniture with sheets, locking windows, and preparing to leave with no certainty I'd ever return.
Adrian glances over. "We can turn around if you're not ready."
His perceptiveness surprises me. "No. I need to do this."
His hand moves from the gearshift and briefly covers mine on the console between us. The touch is meant to be comforting, not romantic, but heat blooms where our skin connects. His hand is warm, a little rough along the palm. Rough? It lingers for three seconds before he returns it to the wheel.
Those three seconds are enough to set my pulse racing and my core clenching.
Oh, look at me. A seasoned romance novelist, getting turned on by a non-romantic pat. A consoling pat, one you might expect to receive at a funeral or in a hospital bed.