Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
My mom is always trying to find me a husband. It’s not something I’m looking for, but I don’t bother to tell her. Riley comes first, second, and third in my life. There isn’t really room for anyone else. They’d have to be really special to get a seat at the table in my house.
“Mom, I would have seen Eva there. She’s only working half a shift. We might have met people I’ve known for thirty years. No one new comes into Grizzly’s.”
The exception is Byron’s friends, but I don’t say that to Mom. She doesn’t need more reasons to try to convince me to go out tonight. I want to stay in with Riley.
“You know they’re having that big opening at the Colorado Club tonight. I heard Justin Timberlake is playing. You never know, he might swing by Grizzly’s for the locals’ after-party.”
We both start to laugh, and then Riley asks, “Who’s Justin Timberlake?” Our laughs deepen, and I officially feel as old as the sky.
“But seriously,” Mom says, “isn’t Byron throwing a party at Grizzly’s? That’s what Donna said when I saw her earlier.”
“Yeah, but it’s Grizzly’s. That place will be here when the three of us are dead and buried. I can go to Grizzly’s next week.”
Next week, when the Colorado Club is open to the world and no doubt Fisher will have returned to New York.
Sometimes, life works out the way it’s meant to. Just me at home with my sweet girl. Tonight, I can dream of handsome Englishmen with messy hair and broad smiles that make me shudder. Fisher can stay my fantasy. That’s all he was ever going to be anyway.
TWO
Eight Weeks Later
Fisher
I spent the first eight years of my life in England, just outside London. Then I moved to Pennsylvania with my mom and dad and have been in the US ever since. I don’t know if it’s my British accent, but I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider. Somehow, eating chicken wings in a bar in Colorado feels more like being at home than it should.
“They really are incredible. I’ve never had food so good,” I say, taking another bite.
Byron chuckles. “You eat out every night in New York at some of the best restaurants in the world.”
“Right,” I say. “And this chicken is better than all that shit.”
“If you say so.”
“You completely underestimate it because you’ve had it your entire life.” I take a swig of my beer, and somehow the chicken makes the beer taste better, and vice versa.
“Wrong,” Byron says. “I left Star Falls way before it was legal for me to eat wings at Grizzly’s.”
“Then your taste buds have shriveled up and died,” I say.
“That must be it. You think we should bring Vivian here? You think your world-famous pop star of a client would enjoy the chicken wings?” he asks.
“It’s a guy thing,” Rosey, Byron’s fiancée, says, sliding into the booth next to Byron.
“What’s a guy thing?” I ask.
“Loving the wings. Loving chicken. It’s like genetic. Or chromosomal or something. Is that the same thing? Anyway, Vivian might enjoy the wings, but she’s not going to worship them in the same way you guys do. Her husband might. He’s with her, right?”
“Yeah, and her baby,” I say. “But, Rosey, you can’t say a word to anyone about her being here.”
“I know,” she says, pressing a finger to her lips.
“I don’t worship the wings,” Byron says. Rosey shoots him a look that calls bullshit. “What?” he protests. “I don’t. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy them, but I don’t love them like Fisher and Worth and… all of them.”
“No one could love them like your best friends love them.” Rosey glances around. “You think you’ll get Vivian out of the gilded cage of the Club and down here to sample small-town life including the chicken wings? She’s one of the biggest stars on the planet, but there’s nowhere like Star Falls. She should experience some of its magic.”
“So, I worship wings, but you think Star Falls is magic?” I ask Rosey.
She gives me a pitying look. “Maybe you haven’t been here long enough.”
“I’ve been here a lot. It’s beautiful. I love it. You know that.”
“Yes, but seeing it is one thing. Living it is another,” she says with a sparkle in her eye.
She looks over my shoulder, and her eyes brighten as she sees someone or something. I turn, and a woman just arrived. She’s scanning the patrons, no doubt trying to find whoever she’s meeting. She’s got wavy blonde hair and bright eyes that I can tell are blue from over here, five yards away.
Rosey catches her eye, and the woman breaks out into the biggest infectious smile that even has me grinning. She waves at Rosey, and I watch as she heads off to one of the booths on the other side of the bar.