Page 51 of The Boyfriend Material Novellas

“I don’t think so,” I say pensively.

He gives me an inquisitive look. “What do you think it means, Marley?”

“I think it means drink each day down like it’s delicious.”

His brow furrows like he’s considering this. “That’s what you take away from it?”

“I do,” I say, feeling certain. “Drink, savor, indulge.”

His brown eyes darken as I say those words. “Those are some delicious verbs.”

“See? That’s what I mean. When you read it that way, it changes the meaning. It’s not the best recipes for skillets that will change your life. It’ssavoring.Like the day is a glass of your favorite wine,” I say, lifting an imaginary glass. “And you enjoy every last sip.”

He’s quiet as he seems to study my face, then he sets a hand on my back as we make our way to an open window, stopping to stare at the cobblestoned streets below.

I’m keenly aware that he hasn’t removed his hand from my back. Just the slightest touch without being too much, too presumptuous.

But I wouldn’t mind a little presumption.

“Do you enjoy your days like that? Like the note urges?” he asks.

“It’s hard to say. I’ve just finished college, and that’s not entirely the place where you can or should drink each day. But I think that’s why I’ve enjoyed this trip so much. I’ve tried to set aside all the unknowns of what will happen in business school. What I’ll decide to do. I’m trying to just enjoy every moment, then learn what I love so I can decide what type of business I do want to run someday. What about you? Do you savor the days?” I ask.

“I don’t know if I always do. Sometimes I worry too much about work. The future. What I’m going to do next. The next step. The next job.”

“I worry about that too. But I try to tell myself there will be time for that.”

“I should take a page from your book and do that too,” he says, bumping my shoulder. “Like what I did there?”

I groan, smiling though, because I like contact with him. “I like it a lot.”

As he stares out the window, his gaze seems to land on a lanky Frenchman trundling by on a bike. The cyclist holds a bouquet of red balloons.

I laugh, tickled by the image. “He’s enjoying his day.”

“He’s drinking it down.” Reid takes his hand from me, and I instantly miss it, wanting it back.

But instead, he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. His touch lights me up like sparklers on New Year’s Eve. “That’s better.”

Tingles spread across my body. “Are you drinking the day?”

He smiles, and it’s both naughty and happy. “This is a day I want to enjoy every last drop of.”

“Me too.”

We head downstairs, and he grabs a book. The photos of Paris. He buys it, then gives it to me. “This makes me happy. Keep it.”

I know I will keep it always. Someday when I’m seventy, I’ll look at it and remember the afternoon I spent in Paris with the man from London who made my heart beat faster and harder than it had before.

7

REID

The clock is ticking.

That can’t be avoided, but I can’t let it dictate my every thought.

This is exactly what it is.

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