CHAPTER 25
OWEN
When I got homefrom my early morning outing with Zoe, I took a long, hot shower. By the time I towelled off and got dressed, there was indeed a new email from her waiting for me, just as promised.
Which I promptly ignored in favor of making myself an omelet and taking my time eating it. (I’m not proud.)
I go ahead, now, though, and click to open the email.
From: Zoe Wilde [email protected]
To: Owen Wilde [email protected]
Date: December 22, 9:07 AM
Subject: Ask and you shall receive!
I heard you, cuz. And while I do wish you had given my original list a tiny bit more of a chance, I will admit that I may have been trying to push you a smidge further out of your comfort zone than you might, er, be comfortable with. So here you are, sir, a brand-new, custom-tailoredNew York City itinerary to keep you busy (at least for today, because I have another article to turn in, and truth be known, I think I might just need to sit for a few hours to fully recover from this morning. Can you believe people do that for fun?). Anyhoo, attached, please see my New List of Awesome Ideas.
Xoxo,
Zo
And,yep, attached, there is an actual file named “New List of Awesome Ideas.”
My finger hovers over the download button, but I just… can’t.
Just the idea of what might be inside fills me with so much exhaustion, I just can’t make myself read it. Maybe I’ll look at it a little later. Maybe I’ll tell her there was a technical glitch and I wasn’t able to open the file…
So, instead, I putter around the apartment. I drop onto the sofa and watch a local morning news show until I realize I’m not really absorbing what the hosts are discussing, and I don’t particularly care about it either. After that, I wander into George’s office and pull out the first Sebastian Steele book—Beg, Borrow, or Steele—settling myself into George’s cozy reading chair to see what the fuss is about.
But despite it having been a runaway success—and I remember seeing the movie trailers and thinking it looked okay—I just can’t get into it. I give up after a couple of chapters. The one takeaway I leave with is it really doesn’t sound much like George to me.
Which is ridiculous because, first of all, it obviouslyisGeorge. And second of all, how the hell would I know what George sounds like?
Still, none of the warmth and humor that comes through in the man’s emails are there in the pages of the book. Oh, it’s good. Technically flawless—even I can tell that. But, for all the flash and glamour and excitement, it lacks a certain sweetness I’ve come to associate with the man.
Not that I recognized it before now.
And not that it’s remotely real because between a guy who exchanged a couple of emails with the man and his millions of devoted fans, I am definitely not the one to be deciding who the real George Knight is.
I slide the book back onto the shelf, feeling a little guilty. If you’re staying in the guy’s apartment, it feels like it’s only common courtesy to like his books.
After that, I do half of the crossword in today’sNew York Times(George has it delivered), do fifty push-ups and a hundred sit-ups, and carve a penguin out of the bar of soap I find in the half bath before finally admitting to myself I’m going absolutely stir crazy.
Is it weird that I kind of want to email George and see how he’s doing?
Yes. Yes, it is weird. And also intrusive because George agreed to this arrangement in the first place specifically so he could focus on his writing.
But I am going to go insane if I stay here any longer. Plus, I’m getting hungry.
I bundle up and go to grab a sandwich at a deli a few blocks over whose menu I found in the pile George left for me. But while wandering around the neighborhood in the general direction back to the apartment, I find myself walking past amarket. I pause to look at the display of fruits and nuts stacked in the window. Screw it. I go inside.
An hour later, I’m unloading grocery bags and setting to work kneading dough for a loaf of bread. While that is rising, I chop herbs and mix up a fresh vinaigrette, then roast some vegetables to toss it with.
Once that is chilling, I whip up a batch of my standard recipe granola bars—this time with a variety of dried fruits you can’t find in Moonlake Village, bake the bread, then set about deciding what my main course will be tonight.
I settle on an improvised pasta dish, filling the apartment with mouthwatering aromas as garlic and peppers sizzle in a very high-end but clearly rarely used pan. I swear, there’s not a single scratch on it.
