Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“So? Worth the adventure?”
“It’s absolutely divine,” I murmur as my eyes meet his across the table. “It’s the kind of thing that makes you forget everything else exists.”
He chuckles. “Exactly. That’s the idea.”
“How’s yours?” I ask.
“Not bad at all,” he says, and we momentarily switch glasses and try each other’s drinks.
The rosemary martini tastes like a standard martini at first, but once I swallow, I get a hint of the rosemary, just enough to tantalize my taste buds but not enough to overpower the drink’s main flavors.
“Guilty pleasure. Go,” Axel says, catching me off guard.
Right now, the answer to that would be him, but I can’t say that. I glance down at my drink, gathering my thoughts. “Fine. I have a weakness for terrible romance novels.”
“Terrible how?”
“Predictable. Overly dramatic. The kind where the brooding billionaire falls in love with the shy but secretly brilliant heroine.”
He coughs lightly behind his glass. “It sounds kind of unrealistic.”
“Utterly,” I agree solemnly. “And yet I devour them.”
He leans back, amused. “Let me guess. He has a tragic past.”
“Obviously.”
“Commitment issues.”
I nod sagely. “Deep ones.”
“An inconvenient amount of money.”
“An obscene amount.”
He shakes his head, but I can see the amusement in his eyes. “And you, an intelligent modern woman, an art conservator with impeccable taste, indulge in these unrealistic fantasies?”
“I do. Don’t knock what you haven’t tried,” I say primly.
He smiles at that, really smiles. Not the controlled, strategic version. Something warmer. “I like that about you.”
“What? My bad taste in fiction?”
“No, the contradictions within you. You’re never just one thing. You can talk about Renaissance brush techniques for an hour, then argue passionately about why some fictional obnoxious billionaire deserves happiness with his hapless secretary.”
“It’s important,” I protest. “He’s misunderstood.”
“Of course he is.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re judging me.”
“Actually, I’m fascinated by you.”
There’s a truth in his words that goes deeper than my guilty pleasure confession.
“And what about you?” I ask. “What’s your guilty pleasure, Mr. High Standards?”
He considers it, swirling his drink. “Trashy action films.”
I stare. “No.”
“Yes.”
“With explosions?”
“Afraid so,” he confesses.
“Gratuitous car chases?”
“The more unnecessary, the better.”
“The hero who avoids machine gun fire and takes out the bad guy by kicking the shit out of him?”
“That’s the best bit.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
He laughs, the sound low and easy. “You think I only watch documentaries about global markets?”
“I assumed you fell asleep reading The Economist.”
“I do that too.”
“Of course you do.”
He leans in slightly.
“But sometimes I just want two hours of implausible heroics and a villain with a questionable accent.”
I study him as if reassessing everything. “This changes things.”
“In a good way?”
“In a deeply confusing way.”
He grins. “Good.”
The jazz swells for a moment, then softens again. I find myself tracing the condensation on my glass with my fingers, watching the way his gaze follows the movement of them.
“Tell me somewhere you’ve never been,” he says quietly. “But want to go.”
“Kyoto,” I answer without having to think about it. “In the spring. When the cherry blossoms are out. I want to see the temples at dawn before the crowds arrive.”
He nods slowly. “I can picture you there.”
“Can you?”
“Yes. You would pretend you weren’t emotional about it. But you would be.”
“Maybe.”
“Where else?”
“Iceland,” I say. “To see the Northern Lights. And I know you said somewhere I’ve never been, but I really want to go to Florence again. I want to savor it properly this time. I rushed it when I visited when I was studying.”
He watches me as if committing my every word to memory.
“And you?” I ask, needing to balance the way he’s looking at me with something lighter. “Where do you dream about?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Patagonia,” he says finally. “Somewhere remote. No reception. Just mountains and silence.”
I smile faintly. “No reception at all?”
He shrugs. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need to control everything all the time.”
I lift a brow.
He huffs a laugh. “All right. I’m trying here.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, touching his hand with mine.
The contact stills him. The air seems to thicken. “I know,” he says, his voice softer now. “But I want to.”
Because of me. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. I hear the words left unsaid as clearly as the ones he did say. I start to pull my hand back slowly, but his fingers catch mine before I can retreat completely. He turns my hand over so that my palm is upwards, tracing the faint lines there as if they’re a map.
I meet his gaze.
“I’m just happy getting to know the you that lives underneath the public persona.”
“Why?”
Because you listen. Because you look at me like I have something interesting to say. Because you don’t flinch from my sharp edges. That’s what I think, but it’s not what I say.
“Because you let me challenge you,” I say instead. It’s still the truth, just a different one.