Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“He said you’d say that. And to tell you that he was wrong. The first and last time that happened.” Row half shrugged.
Tears stung my eyes, but I was smiling. “What else did he say?”
“He asked you not to call it a celebration of life because that always feels like rubbing it in to the dead person.”
I felt my chin wobbling. “And you remembered his exact words?”
“Well, it is three sentences,” Row said coolly, glowering. “And I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“Is there anything else? Something more he wanted to tell me?”
“That’s all she wrote.”
I started laughing and crying simultaneously. Somewhere between touched and moved and completely shattered. Row said nothing. Just stared at me dispassionately with his liquid gold eyes. I wiped my face quickly. I hated that every encounter with this man involved me looking and acting like a hot mess. He twisted again, about to walk off and leave me. Man, he couldn’t stand me. I was going to keep him here and talk to him just to piss him off. How dare he? He took my virginity and it was my dad’s funeral. He was going to be nice to me if it was the last thing he did in his life.
“So how’s Paris?” I sniffled, wiping at my eyes.
He stopped mid-step. Growled in dissatisfaction. Turned to look at me. “Don’t know. Ask someone who lives there.” He spun to pluck a clean plate from a stack on the table, piling it with food. He was downright arctic. Whatever grace he might’ve given me as a teenager did not extend to my adulthood.
“I asked you.” I tried peering into his face, dread blooming in the pit of my stomach. “Because you live there. Wikipedia says so. So it must be right. It’s right, right?”
“Great, another stalker.” He scowled, stabbing a piece of prosciutto with a plastic fork, loading it onto his plate.
Another? How many were there?
“You’re famous and I grew up with you. Of course, I jealousy-googled you. It’s not like I stole your sperm. And hey, I actually had the chance.” I really needed to shut up. The sooner, the better. Twenty minutes ago would’ve been ideal.
“I live in Staindrop now,” came the reluctant answer. “Though ‘live’ is an exaggeration. This place doesn’t even have a fucking Whole Foods.”
We were going to be neighbors? Lovely. Things just kept getting worse for me. And I’d spent this morning picking up my father’s ashes from a crematorium. Sliding over a clean plate, I joined him, pretending to examine the options I myself had arranged there only an hour ago.
I wanted to make amends with Dylan. I’d just lost an important person in my life and craved to balance it out by returning a special someone to it. The way to Dylan’s heart passed through her brother’s approval. So maybe he and I occupying the same town wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Why’d you move back?” I piped out.
“Opened a restaurant here about a year ago.” He grabbed a piece of cherry pie, shoving it into his mouth without tasting it. “Descartes.”
His French accent was on point. So were my nipples, which apparently approved of his grasp of the French language. “Really? I hadn’t heard.”
“The Michelin people did. Gave it three stars. The first restaurant in the state of Maine to receive the honor. Just won the James Beard Award for it, actually. Guess that levels things out.”
Sarcasm was a good look on him. Hell, a trash bag probably would be too.
Also, why did he have to be good at everything he touched? It was completely exasperating to someone like me, whose life was a string of failures, interspersed by bodega runs and late-night trips to the laundromat.
“Why the name Descartes?” I munched on the corner of my mouth.
“Taco Bell was taken.” He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, and my nether region clenched in response.
“No, what I mean is, why him of all philosophers?” Descartes was known for the connection he had made between geometry and algebra. My father had been fascinated by him and had spoken of him often.
“Are you always so full of questions?” he seethed.
“Are you always so full of attitude?” I sassed back.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Made an entire career based on it. Asshole is my entire personality.”
“You weren’t always like that,” I pointed out, my gaze holding his. “Once upon a time, you were the best part of my day some days.”
My confession frightened me. It was too honest, too raw. Row’s face remained blank and unimpressed. Not one muscle twitched. “What a crappy adolescence you must’ve had to put so much stock in someone who didn’t give a shit. Go back to torturing Lyle with your VH1 trivia.”
“You know, I think I’d rather torture you. You’re closer, and unlike Lyle, I don’t like you. So I guess you’re stuck with me.” I didn’t care about his scary reputation or the fact that I was usually a ball of anxious sunshine just trying to get along with everyone—I couldn’t let him get away with this kind of behavior.