Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I didn’t think you were coming,” I say. “I was about to leave.”
“Of course, I was coming,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry about earlier and for making you wait now. Things got a bit hectic at the office.”
“You don’t have to entertain me, you know. You didn’t have to do this.”
His grin is beautiful if tired. “I never do anything I don’t want to do.”
He allows his smile to speak for him. It lingers my way for a few long seconds. The hesitation I felt before melts away, and I realize how happy and relieved I am that he showed up.
And how even happier I am that I believe he wants to be here too.
“Hello, Cassius,” Holt says, dragging his eyes away from me. “Thank you for helping me out tonight.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Mason. It’s my pleasure.”
Cassius, the man who introduced himself to me when I arrived, shakes Holt’s hand. He leads us to a shiny black carriage with oversized, white-walled wheels. The grandest horse I’ve ever laid eyes on stands in command in the front.
Holt’s hand presses lightly against the small of my back as he guides me toward the carriage. I ignore the zip of his touch and climb inside.
The interior is lined with a pristine red velvet. The seats are covered with a matte black material, and when I sit, I feel like royalty.
Holt exchanges a few quiet words with Cassius before climbing in next to me.
Our shoulders brush together as he gets situated. His knee bumps mine in the slightest way. Even so, it feels like a fire is lit in the bottom of my core.
Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he exposes his thick, muscled forearms.
I look away.
“If you have any questions as we continue, please don’t hesitate to ask,” Cassius says over his shoulder. “Otherwise, I will leave the two of you to enjoy your own company.”
“Thank you,” Holt says.
The carriage pulls forward and the clip-clop of the horse’s shoes against the street soothes the nugget of nerves building in my stomach. It’s an odd anxiety—one not from uncertainty or an unwelcome advance. It’s from anticipation.
As I look at Holt sitting next to me, watching me with dark, inquisitive eyes, I wonder if he knows this and is doing it on purpose.
I clear my throat and look at the sky. “It’s so beautiful here. Everything from the painted sunset to the foliage. I wish it were more peaceful like this in Chicago.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“It’s nothing like this,” I say, taking in a small building with stained glass windows. “It’s all skyscrapers and people and hustle.”
“Do you like it there?”
The question catches me off guard for some reason. I look at him.
“I like that I’m close to my family. I like that I can walk to most places, but I can have a car too. And our pizza is the best,” I say, adding the last bit on but internally cringing as soon as it’s out of my mouth.
He fights a smile. “Pizza, huh?”
“What? I like pizza.”
He stretches his arm out behind me and rests it along the back of the seat. Every cell in my body is hyper-aware of his proximity, and it takes all my strength to ignore it.
“I miss Savannah when I’m not here,” he says.
“I can see why.”
The horse neighs as our procession slows. Holt and I are bumped toward each other. Our eyes snap together but neither one of us mentions it with anything more than a grin.
He twists his lips together and readjusts in his seat.
“Do you see that building over there?” He motions to his right with his index finger toward a brick building. A blue-and-white striped awning hangs overhead and advertises a discount store. “That is where my great-grandfather started the first Mason company.”
“Really?”
He nods triumphantly. “It was a landscape company, to be exact.” He looks at me as we slip past the storefront. “He met my great-grandmother at a potluck dinner. She made the best oatmeal pie he’d ever eaten, and he asked her to marry him on the spot.”
“He did not,” I say with a laugh.
“That’s how the story goes.” His eyes sparkle. “He said he actually knew he was going to propose as soon as she walked in, but he needed an excuse to seem sane.”
“Well, if he thought that marrying someone because they baked a great pie is sane, then okay.”
Holt’s chuckle is low and deep. “I know. It’s crazy to me too.”
The horse marches along the street in a leisurely yet steady pace. The rhythm steadies my heartbeat, and I relax for the first time since Holt left for work this morning.
I turn my head to see him. “Have you ever been married?”
“Me? No. What kind of question is that?”
“A completely logical one. Most people our age have been married once or twice by now.”