Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
A pang of frustration wedges in my rib cage. I wish he trusted me enough to tell me. I wish, too, I understood why I so badly want him to admit his plans.
But rather than analyze, I decide I’ll do my damnedest to get it out of him on Saturday.
13
MERIT BADGES
TJ
Today I earned my first official badge. The “I survived a week living with Jude” one.
Yay me!
Fine, technically, it’s not a full week until tomorrow on Sunday, but these last six days feel like the longest test of resistance ever. So, there’s that.
Can I last another fifty-one weeks? Yes, yes, I can.
Also, I totally said that last part in a ridiculous fitness class instructor voice in my head.
Because that’s how I handle living with the swooniest guy I’ve ever known.
I finish the travel journal entry, shut the pocket-sized book, and slide it into the inside compartment of my messenger bag.
But, hold on.
I should know better than to keep an easily accessible record of feelings.
My next mission, should I choose to accept it?
Say goodbye to the pages in this journal.
I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. It’s Saturday morning and I’ve got a date with coffee and chapter two. I can’t wait to dig into my book today.
I’ve already worked out this morning and showered, and since Sleeping Beauty is still snoozing, our first shopping expedition won’t be till later.
I’m outta here.
I head to Coffee O’Clock, and when I push open the door, my new frenemy greets me. The inked barista in the leather apron holds out his arms wide. “Have no fear, Mister Coffee! The steam wands are thoroughly purged just for you.”
Laughing at myself—definitely at myself—I thank him. “I appreciate that, William,” I say, reading his name tag. “Now you know why the International Coffee Commission named me The Bane of Baristas’ Existence.”
“Shocked. I’m simply shocked. What’s your poison this morning?”
I ask for an espresso, and as William grinds the beans, he tips his chin my way. “Have you been busy terrorizing other baristas this week?”
“All over the city, they duck and hide when they see me coming. At the coffee shop near my office, they try to lock the doors when I round the corner.”
Shaking his head, William scoffs. “Not this guy. I love a good challenge. You, sir, are indeed a level ten challenge.”
“Aww. I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” I do my best to live up to expectations by peppering him with super douchey questions about the espresso machine. He answers them all to my satisfaction, then sets to work.
“So, are you a regular now in London?” William asks.
“I’m here for fifty-one more weeks,” I say.
“That’s specific,” he says.
“Well, when you have a massive crush on your roommate and must resist him at all costs, you find yourself counting off every single day.”
“Ouch. That can’t be easy, mate.”
“Not one bit.”
“I’ve been into guys I couldn’t have either. Probably always will,” he says.
“Is that your curse?” I ask with a laugh.
“Seems to be. Probably will end up in therapy eventually. So, other than your shite romantic situation, how was your first week in London?” William asks as he pulls a shot.
I give him another honest answer. “Aside from The Roommate Resistance, it was inspiring.”
“How so?”
Ah, what the hell. I’ve been bursting to say something to someone. “Everything snapped into place for the novel I’m writing. It’s my first.”
“You’re a novelist. That tracks,” William says drily.
“I am indeed a caricature.”
“Nah. You’re a character, but it works,” he says, then serves the espresso. “I’m a bit of a writer myself. I write songs for my band.”
“Awesome. What kind of music?”
“Alt-pop. We fancy ourselves a New Order,” he says.
“I worship at the temple of New Order. One of my top five British bands. What’s the name of yours?
“Lettuce Pray. And it’s spelled like—”
“—the head of lettuce,” I finish. “I love it.”
“What kind of novels do you write? Wait, let me guess.” He narrows his eyes, thoughtfully humming as he studies me like a science experiment.
Please don’t say lit fic. I will die.
“Political thriller,” he guesses.
Relieved he didn’t pick the snobbiest genre, I square my shoulders. “Close. I’m writing a whodunit with a bit of a thriller feel. For now, I’m calling it Only After Midnight, but that’s a pretty pat title, so it will change. It’s set in London, and the young hero is determined to figure out who’s behind a spate of murders at London’s spookiest sites.” Wow, that was a whole lot of info dump.
“Bet your research is fun. And creepy.”
“A little of both,” I say, feeling lighter. It’s good to talk about the book with someone. Some of my wound-up tension slinks away.
“Be sure to let me know when it’s out, and don’t be afraid to put a barista named William in your story.”