Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Nope. He’s not training anyone else or working out by himself.
I guess that’s it.
I exit through the fancy doors onto the street and head in the direction of the subway station instead of taking another cab.
There. I can be economical too. Maybe I should text Emma and give her an update, both on the workout and on my bout of thriftiness. She thinks I’m a frivolous spender and that my parents pay for everything, but the latter couldn’t be further from the truth.
Wait a second. Is it serendipity, or is that a Manolo Blahnik store appearing out of thin air just as I’ve saved some money?
Yep. It’s a sign. I turn to head toward it—and run smack into a wall of familiar muscles that gives my whole body a zippy tingle.
“Now that’s a pretty literal interpretation of ‘bumping into someone you know,’” Ash says with a grin as I awkwardly push away. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
“Subway,” I lie, not willing to get into the subject of shoes or, relatedly, socks. The latter is not something I ever talk about with people.
He looks around. “Subway the sandwich place or the train?”
“The train.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of the station.
“Great,” he says. “That’s where I’m headed as well. Mind if I tag along?”
“This is a public street in a free country.” I head in the direction of the station, and he falls into step next to me, his strides long and confident.
I try not to stumble over my feet. I’m viscerally aware of his tall, powerfully built body next to me, so much so my heart races and my palms sweat.
It’s like I’m a teen on her first-ever date with a boy. A skinny, geeky teen with braces who plays the sousaphone in the marching band.
Yeah, not going there.
“You mentioned being a dog parent,” I say, desperate for a distraction. “What kind of dog are we talking about?”
“Tricky question. I foster whenever I can, but I also have a corgi rescue who lives with me on a permanent basis.” He hands me his phone that displays a picture of an adorable short-legged pup. “His name is Sir Eats-Minced-Meat-a-Lot, or Ems for short.”
I almost drop his phone. “I have a friend named Emma, and I call her Ems too.”
As he takes his cell back, our fingers brush, and the resulting tingle makes me momentarily dizzy and breathless. “I knew we would find something in common,” he murmurs, slanting me a glance. “Though I didn’t expect it would be this.”
I try to get my breathlessness under control. “Did I mention that she’s a cat person? I think that makes it worse.”
He stops, his face twisted in mock horror. “Don’t tell me you’re a cat person as well.”
“I think I prefer canines to felines.”
“Whew,” he says and resumes walking. “I was just about to cross the street.”
“Don’t be too happy.” My lips twist in an involuntary smile. “The margin of said preference is tiny.”
“That’s because you haven’t met a dog like Ems—or Sir Ems, as I’ll call him from now on, to avoid confusion.”
I smile wider. “Sir Ems? That has a very noble ring to it.”
“Corgis are very popular with British royalty. So that part makes perfect sense.”
“Shouldn’t he be Lord Ems then?”
He laughs, and the resulting sound does to my ears what his touch did to my skin. “Sorry to change the topic,” he says, his voice still filled with amusement, “but have you ever been to that place?” He gestures at a charming coffee shop a few feet away.
I shake my head.
“I want to go there. Do you want to join me?” He accompanies the question with a panty-dropping smile. “They have the best espresso in the city.”
My heart starts racing like I’ve already imbibed a gallon of espresso. “The best in the city? That’s a bold statement.”
He nods sagely. “Let me get one for you, so you can decide if it’s worth that honor.”
“Okay.” Crap. Did I just agree to a date?
He leads me to the place, and it turns out to be the kind of fancy café where you have to sit down and order the coffee from a menu. Or, more accurately, this is a French bistro that serves hot drinks and pastries alongside savory foods such as Croque Madame and Croque Monsieur.
“What can I get you to drink?” asks the waiter without even a hint of a French accent.
“Chamomile,” I say almost at the same time as Ash says, “Mint tea.”
“Sure.” The waiter hands us menus and leaves.
As soon as we’re alone, Ash arches an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted coffee.”
“I thought you did too.”
“Nope. I told you that I was headed here, and that they have the best espresso in the city. You assumed I wanted to drink it, but you know what they say about that word.”