Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Nicolo, though...
It's the perfect name to describe how perfect he looks, standing at the foot of the bed, perfectly poised in his perfectly fitting suit, and perfectly dangerous.
I'll give you a few days to recover, and then we'll talk again. But for now rest, and rest well.
My brain wants to cry out, wait.
So does my heart.
But my lips are fortunately smarter than both, and so no words come out. I simply bite said lip as someone knocks on the door, and another man comes in.
“This is Rollo, Juniper. He's with me.” His voice is the same voice it's been the whole visit, even and low and giving away nothing. “If you need anything he'll be around.”
And then he simply turns around and leaves, and all I can do is bite my lip hard until it bleeds.
Blood, I remember thinking back then, is cheaper than tears in this stage of my life. Wounds that bleed heal easily. But wounds that make you cry?
Witness states she is in full possession of her faculties.
No. Strike that.
The cables are unspooled. The machine hums. The cursor blinks. Mr. Bell's at the bench polishing the gavel block. Alan is nine seconds late. Linda's at the door with her coffee and her granola bar. The four of us. The same four of us. The shape of every Thursday for twelve years.
All of these should make me feel normal. But they don't. Why do I always have to lose my mind every time he shows up?
“Good morning, Junebug.”
Elliot comes into view, his brown hair freshly cut from what I know for certain is one of the city's most expensive salons, his blue suit pressed to within an inch of its life.
“Good morning, Counsel.”
“Counsel today, is it?” His elbow finds the rail like it's been there before, which it has, every Thursday for the better part of two years.
“It is.”
“The other time, I was Mr. Wheeler.”
“The other time, you were busy.”
“I'm busy every day, Junebug. You should see my calendar. There's literally nothing on it but you.”
He's grinning as he says this, but his eyes are full of concern, and his next words relay as much.
“How are you feeling? Are you sure it's safe for you to get back to work like this?”
“My doctor gave me the green light to work.”
“What about dating?”
Linda and Alan shake their heads when they hear this, and it almost has me smiling. Almost. But honestly, this is what makes Elliot so good at what he does. He never hesitates to strike when the iron's hot.
“The hotel I told you about, I can book us a table, we'll have the best time—”
“Okay.”
The word's out before my brain catches up to it, and I'm not sure who's more surprised: Elliot, myself, or any of our shameless eavesdroppers. Mr. Bell at the bench freezes mid-polish. Alan, three feet away, drops a pen.
“Okay,” I say again, quieter this time, mostly to myself.
I don't know why I'm saying yes to a date. All I know is that I did...and that ten hours later, I'm internally freaking out because I finally realized I was too impulsive this morning.
I was hoping he'd be late because that would give me an excuse to bail out. But instead he's ten minutes early.
I was hoping some kind of emergency would take place at work, but nope. That didn't happen either, and so here I am, half-zipped into the green silk dress in front of my closet, trying to find something, anything, else to wear.
There isn't anything else.
Not really. Nothing nice enough for the kind of restaurant Elliot would book. Nothing that says I am trying without saying I am trying too hard. Just the green silk, and a black cardigan that's seen better decades, and the navy thing from my cousin's wedding three years ago that has a stain on the hem I've never quite gotten out.
So.
The green silk.
It's a pretty dress. That's the only reason I'm wearing it. Because it's pretty, and tonight is the kind of night where a woman ought to wear something pretty, and it has nothing, nothing, to do with who bought it for me eighteen years ago in the window of a boutique on Michigan Avenue when I'd stopped on the sidewalk and looked at it three seconds longer than I'd meant to.
That's not why.
I'm not petty.
I just look good in green.
I zip myself the rest of the way in, lock the door behind me, two turns of the key, and accept the tulips Elliot hands me at the curb.
I feel guiltier than ever because...
Tulips.
In the summer.
In Chicago.
That's not an accident. That's effort someone like me doesn't deserve, and so I take a deep breath and promise myself that I won't waste another second of Elliot's time. I just need to bide my timing, and then I'll tell him the truth.