Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
After she died, I never wished the clock would turn back or had conversations with her in my head. I was worried I’d never recover if I did. Instead, I marched onward, leaving everything connected to Mom—sunsets and fairy tales and happily-ever-afters—just where it was. In my history. And it’s like London is prodding me to look over my shoulder.
I take a breath and force myself to gain perspective about the reality of fangirling over a perfect stranger in the street. Mom never got embarrassed about anything. If she were here, she would have made the unwitting impersonator stop and pose for pictures. At least there’s no one here to recognize me. New York’s a big place, but I bump into people I know far too often. If I’d been at home, I wouldn’t have felt capable of brushing off my mortification and moving on with my day.
For the first time in a long time, I wish my mom were here. I could be buoyed by her ability to laugh at herself, to dust herself off and make the most out of any situation. I’m pretty sure she’d tell me I don’t have to be grown-up, fiancé-less, inching-toward-destitute me. She’d assure me I can laugh out loud to myself in public, accost complete strangers, and love Daniel De Luca.
But she’s not here, and the only thing that can make me feel even slightly better is the thought that I’ll never have to see that familiar stranger again. I need to find the nearest exit and go find a coffee shop. A caffeine fix is the therapy I need right now.
I sigh, glance around . . . and realize I’m standing in the exact spot Julia and Daniel ran into each other for the first time in Love Me Like a Boss.
Chapter Three
I could only find chain coffee shops yesterday, despite looking for something . . . new. This morning, I asked the concierge for a recommendation. It’s only five after seven, but Coffee Confide in Me is crowded. That’s gotta be a good sign. The long queue snakes down the center of the store, leaving room for small tables on either side.
I close one eye, then open it and close the other, trying to figure out whether I’m just not used to being up at this time or I’m really tired. I sigh, take a step back, and tread on someone’s foot. I stumble forward, then turn to apologize. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorr—”
I freeze in shock like someone pressed “Pause” on me. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The Daniel De Luca look-alike I accosted yesterday is staring back at me.
“It’s you!” Seeing a familiar face is like an adrenaline rush to the heart, despite the fact I humiliated myself in front of him. Today it doesn’t feel as mortifyingly fresh as it did yesterday. “It’s me.” I place my palm on my chest. “From yesterday in the park. I thought you were . . . never mind . . . just someone else.” Is this guy following me or something?
His expression is no less stern than it was yesterday, but I’m closer today, so maybe that’s the reason he looks slightly less menacing. His long lashes sweep up, taking the edge off his masculine jaw and the tightness across his forehead. Would it be rude to ask whether he applies a serum before bed? Whatever it is making those lashes grow, I want a slice.
He still hasn’t spoken. I don’t know why, but I’m really pleased to see him. Maybe I’m so desperate for a friendly face I’m pushing my embarrassment away, or maybe my mother’s spirit is with me, making me immune to shame.
Either way, after one night on a new continent, there’s a bubbling in me that says London isn’t just an opportunity to save my job. It’s a new city, and maybe I can scoop up some of that newness and wear it for a while. I can try on a new me. At the very least, it feels like it could be a fresh start. Or five weeks of one, at least. No one knows me here. This stranger and I will be separated by a whole ocean next month. Who cares if I say hello and he hates me?
“My name’s Tuesday.” I give him my best upstate New York smile that says I like to pick apples on the weekends and bake my own bread. It’s different from the expression I developed when I moved to the city, which gives don’t fuck with me or I’ll stab you in the heart vibes. “We met yesterday,” I say.
His eyes are a cornflower blue—so bright they almost look fake. No wonder I thought he was a movie star—on-screen, he’d break box office records. He glances behind me and nods. I turn and see the line has moved forward a little but I haven’t. I shuffle forward. “I just arrived in London yesterday. It’s my first time here. Do you work around here? You take the subway into Green Park?” New York Tuesday would not be striking up conversations with strangers, but I’m not in New York. Maybe London Tuesday likes to chat with people she doesn’t know.