Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Grandma convinced us (him) to take the jet since we have so much to bring back from there.
“I know you do,” I say, sitting opposite him and keeping my gaze on the pages of my novel.
“The reason I hate it,” he continues.
I bite back my grin.
“Is because I like it. And I don’t want to like it. This lifestyle is a drug.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, trying to acknowledge his concerns without feeding his flames. It’s a thin line.
“I bet your parents found it pretty funny that I asked about their flight when we had dinner with them. Of course, they had a good flight. Who doesn’t have a good flight when you have your own jet?”
I look at my watch. “You have a minute left,” I say.
Flynn has a lurking grin when I look at him. We agreed he could have five minutes a day to complain about wealth disparity. That’s it. No more. End of conversation.
“Are there snacks?” he asks with maximum grumpiness.
I nod.
“I bet they’re free, huh?”
My head bobs. “Depends on your definition of free. But for all intents and purposes, yes, they’re free. So if you’re hungry, I’ll get you a snack.” I nod to the bag on the table across from us. “But there’s chicken and fries in that bag.”
His right eyebrow lifts. “Don’t play with me. Are you serious?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Yes. I’m serious. How did you not smell them before now?”
He unbuckles and snatches the bag, poking his face in it when he sits back down. “I love you so much.”
I return my attention to my book. “I know you do. And your time is up. So eat. Smile. Watch your YouTube videos. Tell me I’m pretty. Whatever.”
Like flipping a switch, Flynn’s grin reaches his ears just as he pops a fry into his mouth. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
I tell myself his change of mood has nothing to do with his time expiring, and everything to do with me, but it’s the chicken and fries. As he indulges, I set my book on the table and fold my hands in my lap, staring out the widow as we ride the sea of clouds.
“I’m scared,” I say.
“Scared?”
I nod.
“Of what?”
“Everything.” I flit my gaze to him for a second.
He slows his chewing, tension building in his brow.
“Scared to dream. Scared not to. Scared of death. Scared of life.” I lean my head back and sigh. “I’m deliriously happy, but utterly lost.”
Flynn wipes his fingers across his lips as he swallows.
“My grandma’s going to be okay,” I say with as much conviction as possible. “And when she is, I want to find a place on the map that feels like our own. Some place like Magnolia Springs, Alabama, or Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. A little one-bedroom apartment. Maybe a tiny house. You’ll get a job at family-owned garage where they have a hound dog that hangs out by the door. His name will be Dewey or Ruckus.”
Flynn grins, eyes alight with as much hope as I’m feeling.
“I’ll work at a yarn store and take up knitting. We’ll have the weekends to make pancakes with syrup and local berries that we pick in the wild. Of course, we’ll have a convertible like Rupert’s Chevelle. And you’ll drive us along windy roads with my hair tangled in the wind, sun on our faces. And we’ll—I don’t know. Just find ourselves. Fall deeper in love.”
His eyes remain captivated as he hums.
“What do you think?” I ask.
His smile fades a bit. “I think it’s missing something.”
“A cat?”
Flynn shakes his head. “A stage. A beautiful dress. A cello from Italy. And an auditorium of adoring fans.” He sets the bag aside and leans forward, reaching for my hand. “Me in the front row. Sitting between your parents, of course.”
I lace my fingers with his. “Lise will live with us. I’ll even put on a dress. But my adoring audience will be you, you, and you.”
“Lise?”
I nod. “Lise Cristiani, my cello. Lise was the first female concert cellist. A Parisian virtuoso.”
He sits back. “You should be touring with your band. It’s your passion.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve been the recipient of my passion most recently.” I smirk. “Flynn, I don’t want everything all at once. I just want you.”
“Well”—he focuses on his bag, pulling out a chicken strip—“I think I’m available. Can I get back to you?” He holds out the chicken strip.
I shake my head.
“Take it. It’s all I have to offer.”
“Stop it.” I giggle. “You had your five minutes of playing your violin.”
“It’s a kazoo.”
I take the chicken and toss it over my shoulder.
His jaw drops, then he grabs his phone, thumbs tapping the screen.
“What are you doing?” I reach for his phone, but he pulls away. So I dive across the table and onto his lap, stealing his phone while straddling his legs.