Page 12 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)

RYAN

MR. RIGHT, MEET MISS RIGHT-NOW

S taring at my phone felt like watching the detonation timer on a live explosive. I tried to tell myself I was antsy for Willow to text me back because I needed to get a little further into The Ford Method before she left town. But truth be told, I just wanted to talk to her.

I loved talking to her.

That girl was hellfire and sweet sunsets; aflame in every way.

Usually, I encouraged program users to take on one challenge every week. But with Willow preparing to leave the city and move as far away from me as possible, I needed to get this show on the road.

This may have started as a dare. A wager. A bet. But two dates and a little text banter, and I already knew she was like no other woman I had ever met.

I had a certain . . . effect on women. I was aware of it, and I occasionally used it to my benefit.

Ladies loved the tattooed guy who wore glasses and still lived with his mom.

But that wasn’t where the money was. The money came from men who didn’t want to take relationship advice from a stuffy, sweater-vest-wearing schmuck who spoke like he was giving a graduate lecture.

But they would listen to the guy who kicked his feet up on the desk, slumped in his chair, and spoon-fed tips on how to be a decent person using sports metaphors.

That was the guy Willow hated, but that guy was effective in reaching the target demographic.

I just needed a little more time to show her the difference between the two sides of my life.

Which was exactly why I was currently waiting by the phone for a pretty girl to call, like I was in middle school.

The phone buzzed, and I nearly fell out of the living room recliner.

Future Wife

We’ve seen each other every day this week. I think we can go one day and survive.

Didn’t like that response. Not one bit.

I knew what she was doing. Willow was trying to put some distance between the two of us. It was valiant of her to play hard to get. Frankly, it made the whole thing all the more fun. Whether she wanted to admit it or had even realized it, I was into this.

Me

I won’t survive. I understand if you’re busy, but I really would like to see you. There’s a festival in Central Park that would be fun to check out. It’ll be low-key. No roses and candle lit dinners. Just walking around and taking it all in.

I didn’t care about getting her endorsement for The Ford Method. I wasn’t going to lose any business from one person’s criticism.

If anything, it made more people look into my programs so they could form an opinion for themselves.

My social media accounts had gained massive numbers of followers overnight.

My clientele didn’t run in the same circles as her fan base, and most of my coaching came from client recommendations to their friends.

But now her fanbase was looking at me, boosting my public profile.

I had been enamored from the first moment I saw her standing in the check-out line.

That night, I had gone home cursing myself for not even getting her name.

Usually, I was smoother than that. But something about Willow Winslet had knocked me off kilter.

When I saw her the next day, all I knew was that fate had intervened.

In all honesty, I had planned on catching Willow after the conference and asking her out.

The bit about wasting your life buying seltzers and vibrators was a convenient way to get her attention. Willow wasn’t one to walk away from a fight, and I knew that subtly calling her out would have her chomping at the bit to get back at me—which would require her to talk to me.

I didn’t expect it to turn into this, but now that I had three months to make her fall, I wasn’t wasting a second of it.

Me

I promise to have you home before curfew.

Future Wife

I can take myself home, thank you very much.

Me

Pick you up in an hour?

There was a pregnant pause as three dots appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared over and over.

Future Wife

I guess I’ll put pants on.

Bingo. I bolted out of the recliner, shoved my wallet in my pocket, and headed out the door.

It felt like it took longer to get to Willow’s hotel than it actually did. It had been a long time since I had been this excited to see someone.

But there she was—the woman who didn’t want me. The one I couldn’t stop thinking about.

Willow stood outside the lobby doors, pacing the sidewalk as she talked on her phone.

I paused on the opposite side of the street and stole a moment to simply look at her.

She was in jean shorts that hugged her ass.

Tendrils of frayed denim danced across her thighs with each step.

Her billowy tank top was tucked into the front of her shorts.

The neckline dipped dangerously low between her breasts.

She was in her Chucks again and had her hair piled on top of her head in a wispy bun.

She kicked a pebble as a smile drew up on her lips. Whoever she was talking to made her happy.

I waited for the light to change, then hurried to the other side of the crosswalk. Willow turned and spotted me before I could surprise her.

“He’s here. I gotta go.” She paused, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay. I will. Love you. Drive safe.”

While she stuck her phone in the small bag slung across her chest, I stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep from touching her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your call,” I said.

Willow waved it off. “He had to go anyway.”

He? Who the hell was ‘he’? For the next two months and fourteen days, I was the only ‘he’ that she would get.

“Wow,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk. “Either you’re constipated or you’re jealous. I’m going to go with constipated.”

I blinked away the red haze that had clouded my vision. “Me? Jealous? No. I don’t get jealous.”

Willow snorted. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. Whatever you say, con man.”

She had me pegged. I hated that it pissed me off to think about my girl giving another man the time of day.

“It’s close enough to walk if you’re all right with that.”

Willow looked down at her feet. “I’m prepared.”

“You look good in Converse.” I cracked a smile. “Classic. Timeless.”

Her cheeks turned the same shade as her hair.

“One thing before we go,” I said as I held my hand up, fingers spread, like I was waiting for a high-five. “Can I see your hand?”

She high-fived me, but I caught her hand in mine. Gently, I held her wrist steady with my free hand and pressed her palm to mine, matching our hands.

“If this is some joke about big hands meaning you have a big?—”

“It’s not,” I said with a laugh. “I mean, it’s not untrue. I’m just seeing if we’re compatible.”

Her brows knitted together. “Compatible?”

Now that she was hooked, I slid my fingers into the spaces between hers and laced our hands together. It was a comfortable hold. Her hands were slightly smaller than mine, making it easy to keep them intertwined.

“Wow,” she drew out in mocking sarcasm. “That was quite a move, Ford.”

I grinned and gave her hand a little tug as I started down the sidewalk. “Hey, I just had to test it. You know—for science.”

“What happened to you not touching me?”

“Sexually,” I clarified. “Hand-holding is platonic.” I pulled her closer as we weaved through a group of tourists who had stalled and clogged up the sidewalk. “And I’m pretty sure I said I would touch you sexually if you begged for it.” I winked as she rolled her eyes.

The sidewalk cleared up, and Willow was at my side again. I stroked the outside of her hand with my thumb. “Who were you talking to on the phone?”

“Nosey much?”

“I’m curious. You were smiling. Was it Whitney or Wander?”

That soft smile was back. It was the best accessory she wore. “Neither. It was my stepdad. He was driving through Utah and got bored.”

“Nomadic like you? Does short-term living run in the family?”

She shook her head. “He’s a truck driver. But he does tell me all the cool spots he sees or the locations of clean truck stops.”

I ran my thumb across the outside of her hand again, loving the way we felt together.

“He’s not actually my stepdad anymore,” Willow hedged. “He and my mom divorced right before I graduated from high school.”

“How long were they together?”

“I was very young when they got married. I don’t really remember it, but there are pictures of me and my sister at their wedding.”

“Is your biological dad in your life?” I asked as we waited for a crosswalk to open.

Willow shifted her grip on my hand, but didn’t let go. “Yeah. We’re not that close, but I see him when I visit.”

“Does still having a relationship with your stepdad make it awkward with your dad?”

Willow glanced up at me and arched an eyebrow. “I see what you’re doing, Ford. I’m on to you.”

I let out a loud laugh, startling the other pedestrians as we crossed the street. “Onto what? Trying to get to know you?” I let go of her hand and raised mine in surrender. “Guilty on all counts, cupcake.”

“Smartass,” she snickered as I lowered my hands. Willow let me easily slip into holding hers again.

“What do you call your stepdad? I’m guessing you don’t actually call him ‘Stepdad.’ I mean, you could, but that’s like the people who are stuffy and formal and call their parents ‘Mother’ and ‘Father.’”

She smiled down at her feet, making her bun tip to the side.

“His name is Shepherd. My mom didn’t want us calling him by his first name, but ‘Mr. Winslow’ was weird too.

So we called him Step Shep. I still call him that sometimes, but usually it’s just Shep.

” Her green eyes glowed like sunlit jade as she talked about him.

“I take it you two are close?”