“So what were you doing, then?” I ask over my coffee. “Before you were thirty, I mean.”
“I worked in finance.”
I raise my eyebrows, the image of him in his suit flashing into my mind. No wonder that look worked so well on him. “And you didn’t enjoy it?”
“No. My folks pushed me into it, thought it was a good career. But I wanted to write. Always have.”
I breathe a disbelieving laugh. My parents might not have pushed me into finance—thankGod—but they sure have their own ideas for my life that do not align with mine. And as for always wanting to write… Well. I get that too. Big time.
“So what made you decide to leave finance and write?”
He thinks for a moment, raising his cup to his lips. “Same as you. I turned thirty and took a good look at my life and realized that I didn’t want it to stay the same. I wasn’t taking my dreams seriously, either. So I started to do that.”
Warmth spreads out through my chest as I absorb his words. I’m not crazy, I realize. I’m not the only one who’s felt this way. He understands.
He sets his coffee down and fixes his attention on me. “So what areyourdreams, then?”
I give him a shy smile. “To write, as well. That’s what I’m passionate about.”
“Yeah?” There’s a little spark in his eyes as they linger on my face.
“Yeah.”
He motions to my laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Oh, just… a blog post.” For some reason I feel a bit silly, thinking about my tiny blog in the context of this conversation.
“What about?”
I glance at my laptop, hesitating. He’s a real writer, with books and everything. The last thing I want to do is tell him I write a blog about being single. It’s hardly the dream writing life we were just talking about.
“You know, er, various topics. What doyouwrite about?” I ask, to take the spotlight off me. “I know you write books about the Appalachian Trail, but—”
“You meanterriblebooks about the Appalachian Trail,” he interjects, a smile peeking over his lips.
I groan. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“I’ll make a deal with you.” His eyes dance as he leans closer to me. “Tell me what you write about and I’ll forgive you for pretending you read my book.”
He’s got me backed into a corner now, but for some reason I’m reluctant to tell him. I don’t know why. It’s not like I need to impress him. And as much as I might be starting to like him, I know nothing will happen. I’m so much younger than him and he’s a successful New York writer. I don’t think he’d ever look twice at someone like me.
And what was Agnes saying? Something about how he’s not up for meeting women—something that was quite evident in his book, despite all my previous assumptions about him being a womanizer.
None of that matters, anyway. Because my twenties didn’t just teach me to take my writing seriously, they also taught me to stop believing in fairy tales. I know better than to go looking for happily ever after now, especially with someone so far out of my league.
I move my eyes over his friendly face, so different from the man I first met. He has crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, and there’s a dimple in his cheek, hiding under his dark beard. It’s adorable. My heart gives an involuntary kick when his smile quirks up a little on one side, and I can’t ignore the desire simmering inside me, threatening to boil over.
Shit, I need to get a hold of myself.
I force the air out of my lungs, closing the lid on my laptop. “Maybe another time. I should get to work.” I drain the cold dregs of my coffee and slip my laptop into my bag.
We head out onto the sidewalk together, and a few feet away there’s a guy shaking a cup with change in it. I’m guessing he must be homeless, or close to it, and it’s cold out. I haven’t seen many homeless people in the city. Compassion nudges me closer, and I stuff a $5 bill into his cup. It’s not a lot but it’s all I can part with right now.
“God bless,” he says gratefully.
I turn back to see Michael watching with interest.
“What?”
