Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I try, but I fail, since I’m thinking of her jasmine scent, her lush hair, her soft skin.
What is she doing tonight? Is she having a hard time not reaching out to me too? Is she forcing herself to make ten million makeup videos to stay busy?
Focus, man. Fucking focus.
I concentrate on David and Cynthia. “It was good to meet you too.” I shake her offered hand, telling them goodnight as the cab idles.
David scoots inside the yellow car and snuggles up against his woman as they drive off into the New York night.
Lucky guy. But hey, that’s the benefits of falling for a woman you can have.
And now I’m jealous of my son.
I head home and go straight to the gym to burn off my inappropriate feelings with exercise.
The next day, I’m up at dawn. I hit the pool for a swim then march into work before anyone else. I am nose to the grindstone all day long, and all these fantastic metrics, like ROI potential, and market share, and scalability, have my mind exactly where it should be.
At the end of the day, though, David knocks on my door, too fast, too frantic. His hair’s a mess. He tugs on his tie. “I don’t know how to get all this done before the weekend,” he says, then as he heads straight for the couch, he rattles off a list of final details he needs to take care of—a shelter visit for more pics, a phone call with the hotel, ferrying some auction items out to the Hamptons tomorrow since he has the day off. “And I promised Layla I’d go with her tonight to pick up the final things around the city. And I don’t want her to have to do it alone.”
He flops onto the couch, flat on his back, like he’s at a shrink’s. “I don’t know what to do.”
My heart aches when he’s like this—nearly immobile from the weight of it all. And I haven’t seen him this stressed since the night we started planning the auction at my place. I take the wheel now like I did then. “I’ll go with her.”
He breathes a huge sigh of relief. “Really? You don’t mind?”
It’s amazing how much I don’t mind. “It’s no problem.”
“Great. I’ll text her,” he says, then taps away on his phone. When he looks up, he says, “She’ll pick you up at your place at six.”
I don’t want her to drive around the city alone either. A new count begins—sixty minutes till I see her.
There goes my six-day chip.
I head home quickly and shower.
28
FOR TONIGHT
Nick
Layla pulls up at six on the dot, the sight of her sports car kicking up my pulse.
Great. Just great.
I grab the handle of the passenger door and get in, feeling like I’m in a foreign country and I don’t speak the language.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi. I mapped out the stops. Put them in my GPS to crunch the traffic times. We should be able to pick up everything and have it back to your place by eight-fifteen.”
Well, Robot Layla is in the driver’s seat.
“Let’s get going then,” I say, following her cool lead.
With a tight nod, she pulls into traffic, heading toward Lexington.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, trying to read her. Her jaw tightens. Her hands curl tightly around the steering wheel. She stares straight ahead. Sure, she’s driving, but her body language doesn’t require a translator.
This is how we’re doing it.
Post country club.
Post rest-stop diner.
Post Raven run-in.
“How’s your week been?” I ask, hoping meaningless conversation will make the next two hours and fifteen minutes less uncomfortable than stark silence.
“Great. Super busy. Yours?”
Ah, so we’re at the peppy, short sentences stage. Got it. “Same. Non-stop. Can’t complain,” I say.
“Good. Good,” she says as she weaves through traffic, artfully changing lanes to dodge a cab in rush hour.
Goddamn, that’s hot, the way she maneuvers her car in the stop-and-start, honk-infested slog of New York City.
I clench my fists, wishing this were easier. But two minutes have passed, so there’s that.
“And things should be good for the auction too,” I say.
We talk about nothing but our tone reveals everything.
Too bad the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice make me want to spend more than the next two hours and thirteen minutes with her—I want to spend the night, and the next one too.
When she pulls over on Spring Street, she cuts the engine then says, “The Chopards are on the fourth floor. They have a vintage necklace, some other vintage jewelry too—”
I cut her off. “David told me. I know.” Then I’m out of the car, heading to the lobby and meeting one of Rose’s parents’ friends.
A woman in her late sixties waits in the lobby. She wears a silk blouse and smells of Chanel No. 5.