Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I stare at the message longer than necessary before replying. Next time. Have fun.
Which isn’t a lie. Evan’s out with friends we went to UCLA with—people I see every time work brings me back here. People who feel like they’re from another lifetime ago, but I love them all the same. But I didn’t want them tonight.
Tonight, I want Crosby.
There’s a firm knock at the door and warmth unfurls low in my belly. I set the phone down and half walk, half jog to the door.
When I open it, he fills the space larger than life. He’s dressed in jeans and a gray lightweight sweater. His eyes start at my head and slowly meander all the way down to my bare toes before rising again. The look on his face shifts.
“Wow,” he murmurs as he steps in. “I very much like you in a dress. You look beautiful.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks. Apparently, I’ve been around the wrong type of men before because no one has ever talked to me with such reverence. It completely discombobulates me. “Hi… you look beautiful too.”
I wince over the stupidity of that and Crosby chuckles, cupping my face to kiss me. It should be impossible, but it already feels so very familiar, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything but still promises plenty.
“You ready for a fun-filled afternoon and evening?” he asks, forehead resting against mine.
“That depends,” I say. “Is this a trick question?”
He grins. “We’ll start easy. Late lunch in Santa Monica with a walk along the pier. Maybe a little people-watching. Then I’ve got us a reservation at Nobu Malibu. I figured we earned it.”
“That sounds amazing. I need two minutes and I’ll be ready.”
“Take your time,” he says, picking up my bottle of perfume from the dresser and sniffing it.
Within a minute, I’ve got the mascara applied and a pair of comfy flats since we’ll be walking a fair bit.
“What’s Evan up to today?” Crosby asks as I grab my purse and a light jacket from the chair by the window.
“He’s meeting with some friends of ours in West Hollywood.”
“You have friends here?” he asks, turning for the door.
I laugh softly, because I forget sometimes how much of my life predates him. “Yeah. I went to UCLA.”
He turns back to me fully, brows lifting. “How did I not know that? This feels like a major oversight.”
I step closer and pat him on the chest, right over his heart, the contact easy and familiar. “Now you know.”
“What did you major in?”
“Film and media studies,” I say. “Same as Evan. That’s where we met.”
His expression shifts and I wonder if he’s picturing me in that life, surrounded by people who knew me before everything else.
Crosby hesitates, like he’s not sure he should offer this, and says, “Do you want to go see them? Your friends, I mean—because I’m fine if that’s what you want to do.”
The way he says it matters. Just an opening, left there for me to step into if I want.
“Maybe on another trip,” I say, stepping closer again, my fingers brushing his arm. “I’d rather spend the time with you.”
And I mean it—not as a dismissal of who I was here once, but as a quiet acknowledgment of where I am now.
Crosby’s eyes spark, then go soft. “What if you can have the best of both worlds? Let’s go meet up with your friends… you get to see them and hang with me at the same time. Unless that’s weird.”
My breath catches—not because it’s awkward, but because it’s generous. “Not weird at all, but only if you really want to,” I say carefully. “I don’t want to impose my world on you and honestly, we’re a bunch of artsy types that will probably drive you crazy.”
His mouth curves. “You’ve already met Birdie. Seems only fair I see a bit of your life from a different angle.”
This is what real couples do. They learn about each other’s lives through shared experiences. The fact it is appealing to me should be setting off all kinds of alarm bells, but I tune them out. “Let’s do it.”
♦
We step into Laurel Hardware, and it’s exactly how I remember it—open, calm and quietly busy. High ceilings, lots of wood and greenery, the kind of place where people settle in instead of hovering. The noise level stays low, more conversation than music, glasses clinking but not echoing.
The room is broken up into sections instead of one big dining space, which makes it easy to scan without being obvious. A long bar runs along one side, already half full. Toward the back, larger tables are all filled.
I spot Evan first on the outdoor patio, gathered with the others around a low fire table surrounded by couches and chairs. The flames are on but barely noticeable in the daylight, more atmosphere than warmth. The air is mild, that easy late-October temperature that doesn’t ask anything of you. Evan is half-leaning forward as he talks, one hand moving the way it always does when he’s telling a story. The rest of the group is settled in around him, relaxed, familiar faces. Seeing them all together feels like no time has passed at all.