Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,34
in a relationship in over three. Which meant I was applying logic I’d used when I was in my early twenties dating men who were also in their early twenties.
Said men had another name. Boys.
Our dates were movies and make-out sessions on futons in bedrooms that smelled like gym socks and instant noodles. The nicest restaurant a boy had ever taken me to was the local steakhouse back in Waynesville, and even that place wasn’t all that glamorous. There were moose heads mounted on the walls and a sports game of some sort constantly playing on the TVs behind the bar, which meant the attention of the boy was never entirely on me but on the screens behind me. At the time, I’d just been delighted to be sitting down to dinner with them. I’d relished the opportunity to get dolled up and put my best foot forward.
But I’d always gone home disappointed.
That wasn’t going to happen tonight. I’d quite literally been swept off my feet and the night had only gotten more magical as time went on. Strolling through the park in the early evening had been beautiful as the sun set. But now, as the lights twinkled on the still surface of the water and lit up random tree trunks in the forested areas, I was quite sure I’d never been on a date that felt so whimsically perfect.
We reached the parking lot just as the night started to feel too cold to be outside. Wes opened my car door and stood by as I got in the car. He made sure my feet and hands were clear before closing the door and making his way around. I put my seatbelt on and sat with my hands crammed under my armpits until he started the engine and cranked the heat for me.
“Thank you,” I muttered. I should have dressed warmer. I was going to have to figure out a way to still be stylish in New York with my limited budget. Back home in Waynesville, I’d just throw on a Mac jacket or something like that, but I doubted many people would take me seriously if I showed up in a men’s fleece-lined flannel work jacket.
Wes reversed out of the parking spot, and by the time we pulled out of the lot, the car was hotter than the Sahara Desert. I turned down his heat to the lowest setting and unwrapped my scarf from my neck.
“Thank God,” Wes said. “I was sweating bullets.”
“Your car heats up so fast. I didn’t expect that.”
He gave me a look I couldn’t read and turned his attention back to the road as we pulled away from a red light. “Do you have things to do back at the new apartment, or would you like to come over for a glass of wine?”
He wanted to spend even more time with me?
What had I done right to attract the attention of a man like Wes Parker? Whatever it was, I hadn’t been doing it deliberately. Was what he’d said about me being the kind of woman he’d like to write about true? Or were those cute little words he knew would make me want to say yes to his invitation for more wine at his house?
Either way, I wanted to go with him. I wasn’t ready to say goodnight, and if I was being perfectly honest, I also didn’t want to turn down the chance to get an up close and personal look at the place W. Parker called home.
“I would like that,” I said.
Wes hid his boyish grin and took the next right. “Then we don’t have very far to go at all.”
Of course, he lived close to Central Park. I should’ve expected that. He was a world-famous author, after all. With all the books he’d published and the popularity he’d accrued over the last several years, I could only imagine how much money he actually had. He played the part of a cool, modest cat, but something told me Wes was drowning in riches.
His car suggested I was correct.
We looped back toward Central Park, and when we took a left off of Central Park South onto a narrow residential street lined in near leafless trees and more white lights wrapped around branches and trunks, I found myself gazing out the window at the beautiful homes on either side of the street. They were mostly townhouses, three stories high, with brick faces and gothic black doors and tiny front yards sectioned off the