Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Not two minutes later, he sent me her number and asked for payment in the form of a signed jersey for his grandson. I chuckled as I sent back a thumbs-up.
Before hopping in the shower, I sent her a quick text telling her to wake me up next time. I wasn’t sure if she was on the plane yet, though.
I showered in silence and dressed like a man going through the motions.
The rest of the day dragged, and by the time I got to the steakhouse in SoHo where I was supposed to meet Micah and two potential suppliers for the deli, I was already on edge. I hadn’t heard back from her yet.
I barely registered the names of the guys Micah introduced me to. They both had decent reps, and this meeting had been on the books for weeks. We were supposed to be finalizing sourcing for specialty bread and meat. But as I sat at the corner booth, nodding along to a conversation I didn’t hear, I kept checking my phone under the table like a damn teenager. Still nothing.
Luckily, Micah carried most of the conversation, sharp as always, holding court like the born negotiator he was. I didn’t contribute much besides grunts and the occasional “Sounds good.”
Micah shot me a look, but I ignored him and typed a text.
Me
Where are you now?
My thumb hovered over the screen while I waited. Finally, the little dots appeared.
Marissa
On the plane. Still have over 5 hours to go.
I frowned. Sounded like a long-ass flight.
Me
Where will you be when you land?
Her reply came quickly.
Marissa
Seoul
Seoul? I muttered a low curse and opened my world clock on my phone, then groaned under my breath. Time zones were going to be a bitch.
Another message popped in.
Marissa
But I’m covering the Junior Championships after this and then the World, so I’ll be traveling to a lot of different places over the next month.
A month.
Holy fuck.
I was gonna lose my damn mind.
Running a hand down my beard, I tried not to let my expression show what was going on inside my chest.
Micah’s voice suddenly boomed across the table. “Raiden.”
My head snapped up to see him arching a brow.
Then I noticed everyone was standing. Shaking hands. The check was already signed.
Shit.
I stood quickly, apologized for being distracted, and offered a few polite goodbyes. Once they were gone, and we stepped outside into the cold Manhattan air, Micah turned and fixed me with a probing stare.
“Wanna tell me what that was?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” He tilted his head. “Because you’ve said maybe twelve words all night, most of them out of order.”
I didn’t answer. My hands were buried deep in my coat pockets, my fingers wrapped tight around the note I hadn’t stopped carrying since I woke up.
Micah gave me a sideways glance, followed by that shit-eating grin he wore when he was about to start some trouble. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
“Drop it.”
Micah chuckled. “Damn. It is.”
I just scowled.
He put on an offended expression. “You got hit that hard, and you’re not even gonna tell me?”
Still nothing.
He whistled. “Whoever she is, she must’ve rocked your world.”
She had. In every possible way. And now she was halfway across the globe, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
The next three weeks were a slow descent into fucking madness.
Marissa and I tried to keep in touch, but it was never consistent. She was on the move nonstop, chasing figure skating stories across two continents—long days, tight schedules, and spotty Wi-Fi. I could feel her exhaustion through every text. And it made me even more anxious for her to return.
I buried myself in work, prepping for The Tight Line’s soft open. The final design approvals went through. We hired three more staffers and held tastings to fine-tune the menu. I worked out every day, trying to burn through the tension grinding through my bones like grit in the gears. Yet every spare second I had, I stared at my phone waiting for a ping.
Sometimes it was one message. Sometimes three or four. But never a full conversation. She was always either prepping for an event, covering it, or passing out from exhaustion in some hotel room half a world away.
Me
How was the arena?
Marissa
Cold. But one of the pairs teams pulled off a quad twist that made me tear up.
Me
Didn’t know figure skating made you emotional.
Marissa
Only when it’s done right.
Me
You sleeping at all?
Sometimes the replies came hours later.
Marissa
Define sleeping.
I sighed, frustrated that I couldn’t be there to take care of her.
Me
I’ll lecture you about that later. Kill it out there today.
Marissa
I’m trying. Jet lag is evil.
Me
You’re tougher than jet lag. Eat something that isn’t from a hotel bar.
Marissa
You sound like my mom.
Me
You want your mom to know you’re not sleeping enough, or should I take that job?
Some days, her texts made me laugh out loud, earning myself odd looks from my coworkers or random people on the subway.