Page 12 of The Love Interest
Fiona out.
I accidentally brush past Rude Handsome Guy’s arm because I’m so focused on avoiding him. It hardly matters because he doesn’t tear his gaze away from his tabletop. I mean, it’s a really stunning tabletop so I get it. God forbid he should have to look at me again.
What a dick.
My feet hit the pavement, and I’m out in the night again, with the warm late summer air and the electric pulse of the city that never sleeps and thenoHandsome Guy.
“Excuse me.”
I just need to get home. Hopefully Jed will be in his room and Keiko won’t be there, so I can take a much-needed Romance Author Nap before leaving for Grand Central. The Hitachi Magic Wand kind. Because I’m just all hot and bothered and primed to fall in love after thinking about William for two hours straight. That’s all it is.
“Hey. Notebook girl!”
Whaaaat?
I stop in my tracks and turn back to find Handsome Guy strolling in my direction, no big hurry, holding my notebook.
Well, shit.
“You left this on the table.”
“Oh. I can’t believe I forgot it.”
He hands my notebook over.
“Thank you. God, I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost this.”
“This is a good pen too.” He holds up my Zebra Sarasa Grand pen.
“Yeah, I love this pen. I’ve tried a million of them, and this is my favorite.”
“Good weight. Clean lines. No smearing.”
“Exactly. And they’re pretty too.”
He smiles and almost laughs, but his expression goes back to neutral so quickly I think I may have imagined it. “I like that kind of notebook too.” He sort of winces, like he regrets saying that.
“I love it. I’ve tried a million notebooks also, and these are the best.”
Wow.
I’m standing on a Manhattan sidewalk in the middle of the night, talking about pens and notebooks with the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in real life.
Pinch me.
We just stare at each other, nodding in agreement—I don’t even remember what it was we were talking about.
“Well, anyway. Thanks again. I’m not usually this flustered. I just moved here, so I don’t have a routine yet.”
I’m pretty sure he mutters “Shit,” to himself. “You’re new in town?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No.” There’s some kind of recognition there—or resignation, perhaps. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks in a tone that most people would use when reluctantly scheduling a dentist appointment.
“Um…”
“We can go back to the diner, or we could stop in at the lounge a couple of blocks up the road.”
