Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Yes, that you wear for public appearances and are very… professory.”
She pulls out a shopping bag I’d barely registered until now.
She reaches in and pulls out a shoe box, which I accept in surprise. “You bought me shoes? Exactly how bad is my wardrobe that you feel you have to supplement it?”
“They were on sale, they’re in style, and they’re you,” she insists.
Skeptical, I pry the blue lid off the box, only to make a surprised approving noise.
“Right?” my best friend says, justifiably smug.
“These are… I love these,” I say, immediately sliding on the loafers. I always love a good loafer, but these are cuter than my other ones. A rich mink brown with an almost velvety texture, and a thicker sole that makes them seem a little more stylish. I stand. “Ooh. I’m tall.”
“They’ve got a little platform, so like a heel, but not,” she says, giving a happy little clap. “Okay. Get dressed. Do your makeup—natural is perfect,” she adds, catching my look. “Then meet me downstairs. We’ll drink wine and talk about how Christian is going to fall madly in love with you.”
Just like that, my queasiness increases tenfold.
A part of me truly is looking forward to the night ahead.
But the majority of what I feel is discomfort.
My last first date was ages ago, and it was with a visiting professor from MIT. We’d talked shop the whole time. Mentally, it had been downright titillating. But emotionally? Physically? The closest thing to chemistry that we’d shared was a mutual interest in spectroscopy. Somehow, I doubt Christian Hughes is going to have a vested interest in the study of the absorption and emission of light and radiation by matter.
I put on the outfit Daphne’s picked and rummage around my limited jewelry collection until I find a pair of sparkly gold hoop earrings that I’d bought for a Nova University holiday party years ago and haven’t worn since. I’m a bit more deliberate with my makeup, too. Black eyeliner instead of the usual brown, an extra coat of mascara. Even a bit of new coral lip gloss I bought on a whim a few days ago, per my horoscope’s urging.
I take a step back and survey the result in the mirror.
“Not bad, Dr. Reed,” I murmur to my reflection. I still look like myself, just not the boring, everyday version.
I reach up and tug the ever-present band out of my hair, releasing my usual low ponytail, and fluff my medium-length hair around my shoulders a bit. Better. I doubt Christian will faint at the sight of me, but it is nice to feel a bit extra.
I make my way downstairs, pausing when I hear the sound of a male voice. For a second, I think perhaps Christian’s arrived early to pick me up, but as I get closer, I recognize the low voice as Archer’s.
It’s been stormy the past couple of nights, so I haven’t seen him since our strange encounter on the roof when I’d rubbed a smudge off his face like…
Well, someone who’s way closer to him than I actually am.
“Miranda Frances Reed,” Daphne scolds the second I enter the kitchen. “How the hell have you not told me that you know Archer?”
I blink in surprise at the good-natured accusation. “You know each other?”
“Um, I know of him,” Daphne says in a scandalized tone, handing me a glass of wine. “He’s kinda sorta a big deal.”
Oh. Right. The art world.
It genuinely hasn’t occurred to me that Daphne might have known who Archer was, though I suppose I should have. Daph’s a graphic designer by trade, but her obsession with art is practically a side hustle. She has annual passes to all the major Manhattan art museums, and even volunteers as a docent at MoMA on weekends.
I glance over at Archer, who’s wearing a gray sweater, jeans, boots, and his usual sardonic expression. He takes a sip of his own glass of wine—Daphne must have poured him one, or maybe he just helped himself—with a raised brow.
“Why are you glaring at me? Did I commit some sort of greenhouse offense again?” I say.
“Nah. Hungry. But your fridge is practically empty.”
“Because I knew I’d be going out tonight.”
“Yes.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I heard.”
Our eyes meet and seem to hold for a second longer than comfortable, and I look quickly away. “There’s eggs. Help yourself.”
“I always do.”
Daphne’s head is ping-ponging between the two of us.
Archer gives me a not-terribly-flattering once-over. “You look different.”
I roll my eyes. “Wonderful. Different is just what I was going for.”
“You look fantastic,” Daphne interjects. “So you two… you’re… friends?”
“Neighbors,” Archer and I reply at the same time.
“We have to share the roof space,” I say, pointing upward. “And he helped me build my greenhouse, but only because the horoscope said I had to ask him.”