Vegas to Varanasi (Fortytude Series Book 1) by Shelly Hickman Read Free Book Online

visit today.”
    “You’re kidding. Guess it is a small world sometimes, eh?”
    “Yeah... small world.”
    David slices up the Wellington and places a piece on each of our plates, along with some steamed carrots. I’ve never had the dish before, but the beef looks really, really rare. I can eat a steak when it’s kind of red, but not bleeding. This meat looks like it was freshly sliced off the cow. And the pastry around it? It’s all soggy.
    We sit in silence for a bit, and I take a bite of the carrots and smile at him. “The carrots are very tasty!”
    Ugh, I do not want to eat that Wellington.
    David cuts off a small piece to sample the beef, making the red juices gush from inside it. He drops his fork on his plate and laughs. “I can’t do it. This is repulsive.”
    Thank you, Lord!
    “It looks like it was pretty complicated to make,” I say to make him feel better. I would suggest sticking it back in the oven, but don’t think there will be any saving the pastry.
    “Should we just order some pizza?”
    “Please.”
    ***
    David plops a slice of supreme pizza onto his paper plate and licks his fingers. “I think I need to give up on this pipe dream of writing a book.”
    I’m just about to take a bite of my pizza, but his sudden admission makes me freeze with the piece halfway to my mouth. “Why?”
    “Because it’s impossible. I don’t know whatever made me think I could write a thriller. Or write anything for that matter.”
    I’ll be honest. My first impulse is to completely encourage this line of thinking. Living with a David who doesn’t spend hours upon hours locked up in a room typing sounds quite appealing. But to sway him to give up his dream and chuck it all because he’s a little disheartened? Don’t think that would be very big of me.
    Yet, what if he truly sucks? He’s never let me lay eyes on a single page of his work, and what if it’s awful? I don’t think that’s very likely, given what an avid reader he is. Someone who reads that much should be able to tell if their own writing at least has promise, shouldn’t they?
    I take the bite of my pizza, then set the slice down. “David, this is part of your problem.” I turn and sit cross-legged on the sofa to face him. “You’re a person of extremes, and you’ve let this consume you. Does it have to be that way? I mean, I thought you write because it makes you happy. If it’s not making you happy, then ease up some. Take a break like you said, but don’t just give up altogether.”
    He stares at me and purses his lips. Setting his plate next to mine on the table, the corners of his mouth curve up.
    “Wha-a-a-a-t are you thinking about?” I ask slowly.
    He creeps over to me like some kind of wild animal about to pounce. “I’m thinking I need to do everything in my power to rock your world tonight,” he says before stretching out on top of me.
    I chuckle at his method of seduction. David’s way to my heart has always been to make me laugh.
    He tries to kiss me, but I put my finger over his mouth. “First, I want you to agree to something for me.”
    “Whum?” he mumbles.
    “Can I please, please read some of your book? Even just a little?” I have to know if he’s wasting his time, or if he truly has talent. Plus, it kind of hurts my feelings that he’s never been willing to let me read any of it.
    A pained, apprehensive expression is his first response. “I don’t know, Anna...”
    “Please? For me?” I bat my eyelashes at him.
    “Agh, fine!”
    “Yay!” I try to clap my hands, but it’s kind of hard the way he has me pinned underneath him.
    He stops smiling and gazes down at me. “You know, I am so thankful for that fucked up knee of mine, otherwise I never would have met you.”

 
    Eight
     
    Julia and I are checking out the new model homes that have just opened in the neighborhood. We’re both HGTV addicts and love to inspect the models for decorating ideas. Of course, the ideas we find are always way