Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
"Your mom has excellent taste, Croissant," I whisper. "And your soon-to-be dad has skills. Like, I mean, skills. Serious skills.”
The cat purrs, completely unbothered by this information. Unbothered and apathetic.
Still, I smile because for once, I'm not overthinking. Not worrying. Just feeling satisfied, wanted, and impossibly hopeful.
4
ALEX
The apartment sits in pre-dawn darkness when I wake up, silent except for my breathing and the occasional car passing on the street below. I should be up, dressed in my running gear, and out the door within thirty minutes. Same routine, every day.
Today, I hesitate.
Images of Emily from last night play through my mind. The way she gasped when I touched her. How she tasted. The sounds she made when she came.
I move to the kitchen, start the coffee, and stand by the balcony door, watching darkness give way to early morning light. Coffee in hand, I sit in my reading chair, staring at nothing.
For the first time in years, I deliberately break my routine.
Normally, I'd be out the door right now. Instead, I'm still in my apartment, dressed in running clothes but going nowhere.
What I want to do seems ridiculous. I'm not sure if Emily likes running, and this early in the morning on a Sunday isn't exactly social calling hours. But I want to see her.
I pace the apartment and check the clock every three minutes. Finally, at 6:08, I cross the hall and knock on her door.
The wait stretches long enough that I consider retreating. Then I hear shuffling, a thump, and muffled cursing.
The door swings open, and Emily stands there, hair a tangled mess, wearing flannel pajama shorts and an old, ratty t-shirt. Her eyes are barely open.
"Someone better be dead," she mumbles, then focuses on me. "Alex?"
"Come running with me."
She blinks and rubs her eyes.. "What?"
"Running. With me. Now."
She leans against the door frame and yawns. "It's Sunday. And I'm asleep. And what makes you think I like to run?"
"I somehow knew you'd say that, so let's make a deal. I'll buy you croissants. The good ones from the French bakery on Fifth. I once heard you recommending them to Roberta."
Her expression changes instantly, more alert and excited, but still quite suspicious. "The chocolate ones and the one with pistachio cream?"
"However many you want. All the flavors if you can manage."
She considers this, eyes narrowing. "You're bribing me with baked goods to wake up at an ungodly hour and engage in physical torture."
"Yes."
"God, why?" She sighs dramatically. "Fine. Give me five minutes."
The door closes. I hear more thumping and what sounds like Croissant meowing in protest. Ten minutes later, she emerges in black leggings, a gray hoodie, and running shoes that look brand new and not broken in.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she says, closing her door. "Croissant is judging me so hard right now. And how ironic is it that the only way I'm running is the promise of good pastry?"
"You'll survive."
"Bold assumption."
Twenty minutes into the run, I know two things: Emily is the worst runner I've ever seen, and I find it unexpectedly endearing. She basically alternates glaring at me, whining, and dragging herself.
"This is torture." She's bent double at the park's halfway point. "I think my lungs are collapsing, and my ankles are at their breaking point. My stomach also feels like I've been repeatedly punched. "
"They're not."
"How do you know? Are you a doctor?"
"No."
"Then you can't be sure." She straightens up, sweat dotting her forehead, and jabs an accusing finger at me. "If I die, tell Croissant I love him. And that you forced me to do this."
I slow my pace to match hers, which is barely above a power walk. Under normal circumstances, this would frustrate me since I maintain a seven-minute mile pace and hate disruptions. Today, I don't care. I’m shuffling… and loving it.
"You're enjoying my suffering, Alex. I can feel it."
"A little."
She tries to glare but eventually rolls her eyes. "At least you admit it. Honesty is a green flag." As we round the bend past the small lake, she stops completely. "I can't. I'm dying. Tell Croissant I love him."
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating."
I hold out my hand, and she looks at it suspiciously before taking it. Her palm is small against mine, fingers cool despite her exertion.
"Three more minutes. Then we get croissants."
"Croissants plural? As in, more than one?"
"As many as you want."
She squeezes my hand. "Okay, you know what? On second thought, I can do this."
We finish the loop with her dramatically gasping for air, and me trying valiantly not to laugh. At the bakery, she points at pretty much everything on display, except the ones with cream cheese because, according to her, cream cheese doesn't belong on pastries. It belongs on bagels.
Hard to argue.
But, as Emily pulls the first croissant from the bag, I try anyway. “Aren’t bagels pastries?” She immediately stops and looks at me with wide eyes and a serious look. “Alex, any man with this question will never get anywhere near my pussy ever again. Or, just to be clear,” she raises one finger in the air, then points it downwards, “my vagina.” I’m leaving Croissant out of this.”