Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Can I bring these to a table for you?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says, as if the idea is shocking to her. “Okay.”
She turns around and walks halfway across the room to one of the reading nooks. I follow closely behind, thrilled that I’ve managed to come up with a ploy to stay with her longer. I’m not usually like this with women. There were enough of them hanging around throughout my teenage years. If anyone should know how to talk to women, it’s me. But this one is different.
“I’m Frankie,” I say, setting the books down on her table.
“Sofia,” she says. “Thanks for bringing the books over. You didn’t have to.”
“It was the least I could do,” I scoff, brushing off her concerns. “You look like you have a lot of research to do.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “It’s a research project.”
“For school?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” she says. “I already graduated.”
“Me too.” I gasp, as if the mere fact that we both graduated from college means we are meant to be together. “I’m studying for the bar.”
“Really?” She seems impressed. “How’s that going?”
“Fine,” I say. “I mean, I’m terrified that I will not pass, so I spend almost every hour studying.”
She looks at me as if she’s just seeing me for the first time. “Do you want to take a break? Get some coffee?”
I open my mouth to respond, thinking that the only reason I came to the library was that I’d had enough coffee for the day. But I’m not going to let that stop me. “Sure,” I say.
“Great,” she says, walking away from the stack of books we so carefully arranged.
“What about your books?” I ask.
“They’ll be here when I get back,” she assures me. “The librarians aren’t so meticulous that they’ll come along and clean up.”
“Um, let me get my laptop,” I mutter.
She walks over to my spot with me and watches as I unplug everything. “You have a nice little setup here,” she observes.
“Yeah,” I agree with a laugh. “I do as much work as I can at home, then I go out to libraries or coffee shops, anywhere I can sit down for a few hours uninterrupted.”
“Am I interrupting you?” she teases.
“No,” I argue quickly. “This is good. I’ve been working all day.”
“Is the bar really that hard?” She asks.
“I’ll let you know in a few months,” I respond.
“So why didn’t you go to your university library?” She wonders as we step outside into the noon sun.
“I go there too,” I say. “Anywhere that has tables and wi-fi.”
“What a life,” she replies.
“So, what about you?” I ask, following as she turns left down the sidewalk toward the coffee shop a block away. “What are you researching?”
“Families in the area,” she says.
“Like who?” I press, more interested in the way the light shines on her hair than what she’s saying.
“People who came to this country from other places,” she replies vaguely.
“Like immigrants?” I guess.
“Yeah, like immigrants,” she confirms.
“Is it genealogical research?” I wonder.
“Something like that,” she agrees, not allowing me to pin her down. “Do you want to go to Cuppa Joe or the Brew Hut?”
“Cuppa Joe,” I answer, pointing out the coffee shop right in front of us. “Brew Hut has a strange ambiance. I once saw a woman reading someone’s fortune in there.”
“You don’t believe in that kind of stuff?” Sofia asks.
“No,” I respond quickly. “Do you?”
“No,” she answers. “Cuppa Joe it is.”
She pushes her way through the glass doors at the entrance and gets in line behind two blue-haired old ladies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of my father’s employees stop at the front door. He turns his back to me, taking out his phone. I know he’s going to stay there as long as I’m in the coffee shop. It’s not always the same guys, but someone is always following me, making sure I’m safe.
I wonder if Sofia has noticed, but it doesn’t appear so. She looks completely oblivious to the guy who could bust kneecaps hovering on the street outside. I hope I don’t have to explain it. I don’t want anything to ruin my chances of a second date. If this coffee break can even be counted as a first date.
“So, what are your career plans?” I ask just to make conversation.
“I’d like to be a writer,” she says.
“A writer?” I ask, surprised. “I always thought writers were alcoholic old men in Paris.”
She laughs, and I can tell it’s genuine. Her whole face lights up, and some of the mystery surrounding her dissolves. “I’m not a poet,” she claims.
“So, what kind of writing?” I wonder.
“Articles, documentaries, journals, that kind of thing,” she says. It’s her turn to order, and the barista gives her a smile. “I’ll take a small skinny latte.”
“This is together,” I announce, holding up my credit card before she can object. “I’ll have a large coffee, Americano.”