A quick search of the title relieves me when it becomes apparent that the middle aged women of Boston are keeping bodice ripping paperbacks stocked in the independent book shops off Massachusetts Avenue.I can’t think of a more indulgent morning than one spent strolling along the cobbled streets, searching for a book, and maybe stopping by Veronica Beard.
Assuming he didn’t have the foresight to order this week’s in advance, I shoot Ben a quick text, asking if he wants me to also grab him a copy when I find the book. He may have hurt my feelings, but he doesn’t need to know that. I barely have time to put my phone down when a notification materializes on my home screen.
Ben
Or I could just go with you.
Not even a question; just a statement. This time, heat flares inside me. There’s no reason for him to come along, just like there’s no reason for me to have such a bodily reaction to his text messages. Another one appears, and anticipation blooms where my heart should be.
Ben
I really don’t have any other plans, if that’s what you’re thinking.
That would’ve been my response, actually.How does he know what I’m thinking?I’m unsure of his motives, especially after the way our conversation ended last night. But when I consider it, Ben tagging along for this, realistically, quick errand would be the perfect time to continue interviewing him. And he has my notebook. And he can just help me search for the book and be on his way when we’re done.
Apprehension trickles down my spine, but anticipation wells up inside me when I realize I might see him today.
Sure.
I quickly press send, tossing my phone away like it’s fire. I search my closet, settling on my black Sandro pleated mini skirt, a cream cable knit sweater, a sheer pair of hose because itisa bit chilly, and my favorite black Chloé boots. Running my hands through my hair, I work through a few tangles but decide to leave it down, the messiness of a good night’s sleep making it look carelessly wavy.
I’m carefully assessing myself when I hear a knock on my door, my stomach briefly sinking. Will would show up, unannounced, with not even a “good morning” text. The sinking in my stomach quickly morphs into annoyance as I haphazardly fling my front door open.
“I figured I would swing by here, since you weren’t answering my texts… but I can go?” Ben greets me, confusion swirling in his eyes, the corners of his mouth upturned in a slight, mischievous grin. I take a steadying breath and breathe deeper when hisscent envelops me— rain and cedar— and a startling familiar feeling sets into my bones.
“Sorry,” I smile, shaking my thoughts away. “I thought you were Will.”
“Oh,” Ben hesitates, suddenly uncertain. “I can go. I didn’t realize?—”
“No! No, I mean, don’t go. I’m not expecting him.”
“You weren’t expecting me either,” he replies, a flirtatious smirk gracing his face. My lips press together in an attempt to stifle yet another smile.
I eye him carefully before looking away. “Let me just grab my bag and we can go.” I whirl around to find my bag resting on the bench to my left and check to make sure I have my wallet.
Locking the door, I feel Ben’s presence behind me, the warmth from his closeness a sharp contrast to the cool wind whispering about my pantyhose clad knees. It isn’t until I’m standing at his car, the passenger door held open by him, that I register what we’re doing.
This feels like a date.
But it’s not a date; Ben’s chivalrous door opening is, in fact, not chivalry at all but common decency.I really need to stop reading so much fluff, I chastise myself as the passenger door deftly falls shut. According to Will, Ben is like this with everyone; it’s me who’s reading into it.
“You can DJ,” Ben offers, shooting a playful glance my way as we make our way into the city center, smiling knowingly. “Since you’re already pairing your phone to my car.”
“While I appreciate the permission, I would’ve anyway. Passenger princess, and all that,” I brashly reply, surprised at myself. He hums in acknowledgement as I press play on one of my daily mixes. Fleetwood Mac’s “Gypsy” weaves its way through the speakers. I catch Ben’s eyebrows raise in my peripherals.
“Yes, Cabot?” I turn in my seat to face him, ready to defend my choice. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked.”
“Okay— I’m not shocked,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I just didn’t take you for a girl into the oldies.”
“First of all, I resent the idea that oldies can be used in reference to Stevie Nicks. She is timeless. Second of all, if you were a teen girl anytime in the past two decades and youdidn’tgo through a Fleetwood Mac-record shop phase, you are an anomaly,” I explain with rapidity. I shake my head in mock disbelief. “I’d love to know what kind of girls you’ve known whodon’tscream “Dreams” every time it comes on.”
“Well maybe,” Ben begins, the start of a sarcastic remark on his lips, “you’re justnot like other girls.” He slyly glances at me out of the corner of his eye, grinning.
“Oh come off it, Cabot. I’m exactly like other girls,” I roll my eyes, amused. “Well, maybe slightly better,” I add, righting myself in my seat so that I’m looking ahead. Ben murmurs something to himself, but it’s drowned out by the embarrassingly loud growl of stomach.
“Sorry. I’m also a breakfast girl, but I overslept. If you just stop at—” Ben’s blinker cuts me off, indicating a sudden detour. His car slows, bumping along the cobblestone side street he’s turned into. He parallel parks in record time in front of a worn, but clean building.
When I look out the window, I’m met by a royal blue sign in cursive lettering, most certainly at least three decades old. Inside, stereotypical diner booths skirt the perimeter of the tiny spot, with a few tables clustered in the middle. A waitress wearing a checkered apron makes her rounds. As Ben opens the door for me, I’m met by the comforting aroma of diner coffee.
