Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
The handsome man smiles, small and a little sad. “Thank you for making me want to try, Kitty Kat.”
We part ways at the pond—me toward the east gate, him toward the coffee cart at the entrance. Neither of us looks back.
The spring sun is warm on my face, the scent of cherry blossoms thick in the air. I walk with my hands in my pockets, head up for the first time in ages.
Maybe there isn’t a happy ending.
But this time, I want to write the sequel myself.
19
CHAPTER NINETEEN – A DATE AT THE RESTAURANT
Talon
If you want to know what hell actually feels like, try waiting outside a crowded Italian restaurant in a college town when the woman you love is late. Is Kat going to show? Or am I going to be left on the sidewalk like discarded trash?
Every couple walking past is locked into their own romantic reverie, making me feel even more desperate. I check my phone for the third time—no texts, no missed calls, just a home screen full of unread news alerts and the nervous thrum of my own reflection in the glass. I look like I’m trying too hard to seem normal: black jeans, blue button-down, the sleeves rolled and the cuffs just uneven enough to say “I’m not overthinking this.” I am, obviously. My hands are so dry I could sand wood with them.
I fumble with the collar, tug it down, then do it again because my heart is hammering against my ribs and nothing on this side of tequila is going to slow it. The inside of the restaurant glows warm through the windows, all candles and red and white checkered tablecloths. I can see the old Italian lady at the hostess stand, fussing with her iPad, and I’m already rehearsing what I’m going to say when Kat shows up. If she shows up.
A woman walks up the street, her head down in the collar of a blue coat. She moves elegantly, like a sylph—shoulders back, hips swinging with metronomic grace. I know it’s Kat before I see her features. I’d know the tilt of her jaw or the gloss of golden hair anywhere. She slows on the sidewalk, takes a breath, and looks up.
It hits me all over again, the way it did in the bookstore: Katherine Vreeland is beautiful. Not the surface-level, Instagram-influencer kind, but the sort that makes you ache in your bones. Her hair is loose, gold catching in the streetlight, and she’s wearing a dress I’ve never seen—a soft gray thing that clings to her curves and stops just above the knee. For a second, I forget what my mouth is for.
She spots me and smiles shyly before approaching.
“Hey,” she says, tucking a strand behind her ear. She’s not wearing much makeup, maybe none at all, but her lips are bitten red and her eyes look enormous.
I smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Hey yourself. You look—” My brain catches on the word. “—really good.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, with a snort that says she doesn’t believe it. “You too.”
I grin. A flash of teeth—a real smile. My nerves pop like a soap bubble. I open the door for her, and we slide inside.
The hostess is five feet tall, wearing a black cardigan with the restaurant logo embroidered in gold script over her left breast. “Name?” she asks, scanning the crowd behind us.
“McKnight,” I say. “Reservation for two.”
The old lady glances at her iPad, then leads us past a double row of booths, the tables jammed with college kids and silver-haired professors alike, all of them gesturing wildly or shouting over the Frank Sinatra soundtrack. I catch a few stares, but nothing unusual. Kat keeps her eyes straight ahead, her hand brushing mine for a second, then gone. The hostess deposits us in a corner booth—red leather, checkered tablecloth, a candle.
“Enjoy,” she says, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, something powdery and grandmotherly that lingers as she floats away.
I slide in, trying not to stare as Kat unbuttons her coat and shrugs it off, folding it over the back of the seat. Her dress is simple but devastating, the fabric hugging her waist and cupping her bust with a loving precision that makes my ears buzz. I watch her fidget with the menu, tucking her hair behind her ear again, and realize that I’ve missed every one of her nervous tics.
She glances up. “You okay? You’re staring.”
“Just—” I start, but the words evaporate. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually show.”
She smiles sweetly. “Me either. But I figured you’d do something dramatic if I stood you up. Like send a food basket to my apartment. Or egg my car.”
I laugh, and the tension between us cracks, just a little. “I’m more a passive-aggressive email guy. You’d have gotten at least three ‘per my last email’ communications before midnight.”