Page 8 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)

RYAN

THE PIEROGI PIT STOP

M y phone pinged.

Future Wife

The traitor has been executed.

I chuckled as I peeled my attention away from the video call for a split second and texted back.

Me

Tell Wander her efforts were not in vain. I’ll send flowers to the funeral.

Future Wife

Wander hates flowers. Send a French fry bouquet.

I grinned because Willow was bantering with me. As long as she kept talking to me, I had a chance.

Me

What about you? Flowers or fries?

I turned my phone over so I wouldn’t be tempted to keep texting while I was coaching. I unmuted my microphone and nodded as Jesse, the client, finished explaining how he was struggling with week seven.

“Hey, man. I get it. It can be hard to separate the idea that sex doesn’t mean intimacy.

Sometimes it does, but what you need to focus on is thinking of intimacy as comfort.

Safety. Calm. You have to remove any barriers that keep her from feeling like she can open up to you.

Is there laundry on the couch? You can do the romantic candlelit dinner with champagne and all the bells and whistles, but if there’s something that has to be done around the house, she’ll be distracted or feel guilty that it hasn’t been done yet.

Just because you can put it out of your mind doesn’t mean she can.

So remove that barrier. Clean up the kitchen before she sees the dinner you busted your ass to make.

Fold the clothes sitting in the laundry basket.

Pick up the clutter. That way, she doesn’t hop up at the end of the meal to tackle the dishes, and you two can have time to deepen your connection.

Take that mental load from her so, when you’re having your intimate night, all she has to think about is you. ”

Jesse sighed. “I hate folding clothes.”

“She probably does too.”

That made him pause.

This shit wasn’t rocket science, but sometimes it felt like teaching physics to a four-year-old would be easier.

“Hell, you should make it a thing you guys do together. Get some takeout or throw a frozen pizza into the oven, put on a TV show you both like, and fold the laundry together. Try to frame it as something you do with your hands while you get to spend time talking to her. If you treat it like a chore, it will be. Spending time with your wife isn’t a chore, my guy. She should be your best friend.”

Jesse cracked a half-smile. “Yeah, she’s great.”

Jesse and his wife, Michelle, went through a rough patch in their marriage.

She brought up separating, and it was enough of a wake-up call for Jesse to start putting in some effort.

Thanks to a work buddy who had gotten engaged after going through my program, Jesse started The Ford Method and was slowly working his way through the steps to make his wife fall in love all over again.

His problem was complacency. He and Michelle had been married for four years and together for nine—enough time for the honeymoon stage to wear off and the mundane to set in.

Apathy was a death sentence for love.

“Our time’s about up,” I said as I glanced at the clock on my computer. “Anything you want to tackle before we sign off?”

Jesse sighed as he sat back in his office chair and raked his hand through his hair. “Nah. I've gotta head to a meeting.”

“Of course. I hope things go well. You already have the skills you need to succeed. I’m just here to remind you that you have them.”

Jesse nodded, looking a little more relieved. “Thanks, man.”

“Talk to you next week. Have a good one.”

The video call screen went dark, and my attention immediately went to an unread text from Willow sitting on my phone.

Future Wife

I’m allergic to flowers and potatoes.

Me

No potatoes. Got it. Too bad. I was gonna swing by your hotel and bring you some pierogies from this little spot in the East Village. They’re the best and usually sell out before the afternoon. But since you’re allergic to potatoes, I’ll bring a salad. Do you like kale?

I knew exactly what she was doing, and I was more than willing to play her little game. It wasn’t so much what she said. It was what she did.

The takeout I had spotted in her hotel room the morning after Rom-Con was comfort food.

Spaghetti and garlic bread. Filling and simple.

The seltzer and boxed wine told me she was no-nonsense, but her comment on stage about her hair being the color of rosé told me she was probably highly opinionated when it mattered.

Future Wife

East Village, you say?

Me

Let me bring them to you.

Future Wife

Nah. I’ll pick them up on my way to the airport. I’ve decided to flee the country.

But I was already shoving my laptop into my bag and heading out of the coffee shop that I’d been working at all morning.

Me

My passport is up to date. I’ll come with you.

Odette’s was a cozy spot nestled away from the hustle and bustle. There was barely room to stand, much less sit, which made it too easy to trap Willow inside when she slipped through the door.

“Busted,” I said as I sidled up to her in the line to order.

Willow jumped and pressed her palm to her chest. “Geez. Warn a girl.”

Today, her hair was in two pink braids that started at the top of her scalp and danced along her shoulder blades.

She was in a pair of overalls with stylish rips and tears, and a cropped shirt that offered a peek at her waist. Her sneakers were classic black and white Converse, but she had swapped the standard laces for purple ones.

The overalls were cute as hell and made her ass look like a dream.

“Nice try getting pierogies without me. So, about that potato allergy...”

Willow had the good sense to look guilty.

I placed my hand on the small of her back as we shuffled forward in line. “You’re stuck with me for three months. Fuck around with me all you want. Just know it can be three months of potatoes and rosé and all your favorite things, or three months of kale smoothies.”

The woman in front of us moved to the side, and we took our place at the register. The cashier looked at us with aged eyes. “What can I getcha?”

“What pierogi flavor is the best?” Willow asked.

“Ruskie. Potato and cheese.”

Willow perked up at that. “I’ll take four.”

“Make that eight,” I said as I pulled out my wallet. "A bottle of water for me.”

Her green eyes lit up as she scanned the drink options. “Ooh! And a hot chocolate!”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Hot chocolate? It’s eighty-five degrees out, cupcake.”

“Hot chocolate is made for pierogies. I don’t make the rules.”

Noted.

“Two hot chocolates,” I said as I handed over my card and waited for the cashier to swipe it.

I kept my hand on her back as we moved to the side and waited for our number to be called.

“How was your morning?”

Willow chewed on her lip. I watched as she debated just how much information she would give me. “Lazy morning. Slept in. Caught up on some admin work. Finished reading Whitney’s new book.”

“When do you usually write?” I asked.

“I’m on a break at the moment. I’ll start a new book whenever I leave New York.”

Well, that was something.

“Where are we going?” I asked as I grabbed our pierogies and hot chocolates from the pick-up counter. Two stools pressed up against the bar along a picture window became available. I snagged them and pulled one out for Willow.

Surprisingly, she sat without argument. “ We aren’t going anywhere. I haven’t decided where I’m going next. But I hope you’re okay with long distance because I plan on getting as far from New York as possible.”

I chuckled as I doled out the food, half for her and half for me. “I hear Arizona is pleasant in the middle of summer.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Actually, I was thinking Oregon. The cliffs would make getting rid of a six-foot-two body a lot easier.” She took a bite of a pierogi and let out a guttural moan.

“Oh my god. That’s amazing.” She chased it with a sip of hot chocolate and did a happy little wiggle in her seat.

Score. She was a foodie. I loved that. Food wasn’t only for sustenance. It was meant for enjoyment. For connection. For culture. For traditions and memories. It was a platform for gathering and it lowered inhibitions.

“So, Oregon. Work or pleasure?” I said around a mouthful.

She shrugged. “I just need to find somewhere new.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever had a woman move across the country to get away from me. As disappointing as that is, I’ll check it off as a first.”

Willow rolled her eyes as she wiped her fingers on a napkin. “What’s that old saying? It’s not you, it’s me? I don’t stay anywhere for more than three months.”

Now that was interesting.

Instead of asking why, I asked, “Have you been in New York for three months, or is the city a pit stop?”

“Pit stop. I'm here for the conference. Decided to add a few days and make it a vacation while I decide where I’m driving next.”

“Where were you before this?”

“Montana. Three months on a ranch while I wrote a book about cowboys.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Damn. So, you go to the settings of the books that you write?”

“More like I go to a setting and write a book about it.”

She was distracted enough by the food to open up. Jackpot.

“How does that work?” I asked.

She drew the paper cup to her lips and lingered over it, not speaking but not sipping.

“I pick a spot I want to go to, book a short-term rental, and make the drive. I spend two weeks exploring whatever town or city I’m in, a week plotting the story, and nine weeks writing.

Then I pack up and find somewhere new. Wash, rinse, repeat. ”

There was an edge to the “wash, rinse, repeat.” A story behind it.

“Where did you live before you started traveling?"

“California.”

I grabbed my last pierogi. “So what’s on the shortlist for destinations?”

Willow wiped her mouth and balled up the napkin. “Idaho, Michigan, or North Dakota. I try to hit the northern states in the summer and the southern states in the winter.”

“That’s smart.”

She cracked a smile, and damn if it wasn’t the prettiest thing I had seen in a long time.

“I learned my lesson the first time I tried to handle New Mexico in June, July, and August. I was miserable.

So I got out of it for the next writing stint and decided to go to Washington State.

" She cringed. “Washington State between October and December is too cold and too wet. It’s miserable.”

“Sounds like those states need a do-over.”

She shook her head. “No repeats until I spend three months in all of them.”

I did the math and nearly choked. “You’re going to keep moving every three months for the next twelve or thirteen years ?”

Willow shrugged. “I get bored easily. The rentals are a tax write-off since it’s a business expense.

My car is paid off. I’m just one person.

It’s not that bad. Once, I tried working west to east, but I got bored with similar climates and scenery.

Crisscrossing the country is more fun. I like the change. ”

“Alaska and Hawaii?”

She nodded. “On my list, they take a little more planning. With Hawaii, I have to decide if I want to store my car on the mainland and find something to drive while I’m there, or pay to have my car shipped over.

With Alaska, it’s more about preparing for the drive and the logistics of the climate and resources. ”

She was impulsive, but also a little bit of a planner. I liked that combination. She wasn’t afraid of putting herself out there and going for what she wanted, but she was still grounded.

I collected our trash and dumped it in the garbage can. “So are you working or vacationing this afternoon?”

Willow must have realized how much information she divulged because she went quiet.

I held my hands up. “I have client calls scheduled this afternoon, so I’m not inviting myself along.”

She let out a little sigh of relief. “I was going to hit some museums then browse rentals to see where I want to go next.”

“I heard the Met has a great exhibit right now.”

“Yeah, I was reading about it and—” she clammed up and went frosty on me again. “I might go see it.”

I guided her out of the restaurant with my hand on her back. “Go ahead. Get your jab in. I know it’s on the tip of your tongue.”

She tried to hide her smile by rolling her lips between her teeth. “I can’t believe people pay to talk to you.”

“One day you’ll realize that I’m not Harold Hill from The Music Man .”

Willow arched an eyebrow. “So you’re a musical fan.”

“We should see a show while we’re here.”

She grimaced. “I’m not big on musicals.”

“Do you like concerts?”

“Yeah, I love live music. I just hate the sing-talking in musicals. It drives me crazy. They need to pick a lane.”

Willow paused at the subway entrance, but I needed to go in the opposite direction. “Let me know when you get back to your hotel,” I said. “Just so I don’t worry that something happened to my future wife. It’d be bad for business if you got lost and I didn’t get to make you fall in love with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know I’m not going to fall in love with you, right?”

I booped her nose with my finger. “I’ll enjoy making you eat those words, cupcake.”