Page 57 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“He hasn’t mentioned anything.” Then again, I didn’t tell him it was my birthday or invite him here, so I’m assuming not.
“Well, if I have to waddle, or roll, then so be it. You deserve to be celebrated.”
“My parents are going to take me to dinner, and honestly, a massage or something is all I want or need.”
“Okay, well, I am going to call and make you the massage appointment—on my credit card. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” I chuckle. “That is more than generous.”
On the way home, a series of texts begin pinging on my phone. At first, I think nothing of it, but then I remember I’m not that popular. Curiosity has me fishing my phone out of my purse at a stoplight.
There’s a text from a friend named Theresa that I haven’t been great about keeping in touch with congratulating me.
Theresa:Tell me more about this younger man.
Another, from my friend Robin, appears on the screen next.
Robin:I need the deets on this, lady! WTG
My brain scrambles to keep up. The interview has been published. Managing not to crash my car, which is no small feat, I open my podcast app and click on the episode. And since it’s only a five-minute drive from Scarlet’s place to mine, I fast-forward to the end of the interview.
Listening to it, I feel fifty shades of self-conscious. It’s just as brutal this time around. Maybe more so? Because instead of hearing Hannah’s probing questions and the sound of my heart and stumbling through my responses, this time I hear both sides of the conversation. I hear my awkward laugh and can practically feel the embarrassment pouring off me in waves.
I’m unsure of the best way to handle it. Ignore? Text Hart and admit I’m an idiot and mentioned him, though not by name, in an interview? I decide to do nothing and hope it goes away. It might not be the most mature strategy in the world, but right now it feels like my best option.
I cave and decide to mention my upcoming birthday to Hart, along with the news that I would soon be heading back to Nairobi. He books a plane ticket for the very next weekend.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen him, and although we’ve texted and chatted on the phone, I’m excited to see him again, if only to find out if the chemistry I’ve built up in my head is accurate, thinking it can’t possibly be.
I’m wrong, of course.
I take my time getting ready for our date, slipping on an Alice + Olivia dress from my closet that I bought years ago and have never had an occasion to wear. It’s black with a mesh top and fitted skirt that endsat my knees. I coupled it with a pair of sky-high black strappy heels, and I feel somewhat overdone, overdressed.
But when I meet Hart in the lobby of his hotel and his eyes find mine in the crowd of tourists, his lips part and the look on his face makes me feel incredibly sexy.
It’s addicting.
“You look incredible,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to my cheek. Even in my highest heels, he towers over me.
“Thank you.” I fidget with my minuscule handbag.
He looks very tempting in head-to-toe black—his pants, collared shirt, and jacket are all finely tailored and expensive looking.
We walk from his hotel to a fancy steak house that’s only three doors down. It’s a great restaurant and one I suggested when he mentioned he’d booked a suite in the nicest hotel in the area.
Inside, Hart gives the host his name, and I’m pleased to see he made a reservation. We’re led to a semiprivate table in the back of the restaurant.
We order wine, and a server appears to fill our water goblets, and then we’re alone.
“So, Mr. Winthrop,” I say, smiling, folding my hands on the table in front of me. “What have you been up to lately?”
He grins; it’s lopsided and filled with amusement. “I’m sorry. Did you just ask me a question? That dress is very ...” His lips part and he inhales, raggedly.
“Very what?”
“Very dangerous to my concentration.”
I hold his gaze, which is assessing, admiring. I feel like a treasured piece of art.
