My dreams seem so out of reach. Like, oceans and mountains away. Maybe galaxies.

But I don’t like being dishonest with Chance, so I carve out a portion of the truth. “I’d like to be the best damn reporter I can be. I want to impress the hell out of 24News. Get bigger and better assignments. Tell stories readers can’t put down.”

There. That’s true enough.

Chance nods, seeming pleased with that answer. “I have faith in you.”

“Thanks.” I hope his faith is enough for both of us.

Clearing his throat, he reaches into the side pocket of his overnight bag. “I got you something,” he says a touch awkwardly. I know it’s not his style to give going-away gifts.

“Aww, I take back all the times I said you weren’t a nice guy,” I tease. Snarky is easier than serious.

Without acknowledging my comment, he fishes out a book. Wait. No. It’s more like . . . a journal. He doesn’t hand it to me, though. He holds it close to his chest like it’s precious, just like he cradles the ball when he’s on the pitcher’s mound.

I press pause on the sarcasm button, looking from the journal to my brother as he speaks.

“When we were in London with Mom and Dad, you kept a journal,” he says. “You read it out loud to me every night. By which I mean you read it in that TV announcer voice you use when you’re pretending something isn’t important.”

I nod a little solemnly. “I remember. I called it Bedtime Reading.”

You wrote funny stories about what we did each day but added your own twist. How when we visited Buckingham Palace, the queen was probably sneaking away to eat Cap’n Crunch in a stateroom to plot heists while the prince was busy doing something secretive.”

The memory amuses me, especially since I know what the prince was off doing. I just didn’t read that part to him at that age. “I had an active imagination.”

“Bet you still do.”

Chance is quiet for a spell, and so am I. Maybe we’re both lost in time.

Then he goes on. “When we were back home,” he says, “you’d be in your room at night reading mystery and romance novels. But sometimes, you still wrote in that travel journal.”

Whoa. Someone notices everything. “You do have twin-tuition,” I say, and that’s as much of an admission as I can manage.

With a nod, he hands me the light blue notebook. There’s an illustration of Tower Bridge on it and a passport stamp in the corner. “Maybe you’ll keep a travel journal while you’re there this time. Maybe it’ll inspire you.”

It’s weighty when I take it, like this is the gift he’s wanted to give me for years. I flip open the cover, the blank pages a gorgeous invitation to fill them.

I turn the journal over to find a price tag, worn thin over the years. The number is faded, the store name smudged, only the O and B still visible.

Is it from the same shop? The one with a brick exterior, bright white walls, and a clock that looks like the moon?

I meet my brother’s gaze. “You got this when we were kids?”

With a smile, he answers, “At that same store. I held on to it till the right moment.”

Wow. I’m all but speechless. “Thanks, Chance.” It’s sincere, not a bit of snark. I hug him to let him know how touched I am. “I’ll definitely start writing in this today.”

At JFK, we grab our bags and head into the terminal, stopping under a big departure sign. This is where he goes to Florida to pitch against the Miami team, and I go to London for the new phase of my career.

We glance at the screen then turn to each other. Chance flashes a wide grin. “Have fun, but don’t let anyone break your heart while you’re in London living out your fantasy.”

“Please. There will be no heartache. Only good times. And you—” I pat his chest. “You’ll be the closer in no time.”

He gazes heavenward with crossed fingers. I laugh and cuff his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll miss you a tiny bit.”

“I recorded you saying that,” he whispers. “Now I have leverage over you forever.”

I narrow my eyes with a warning. “Don’t fuck with someone who looks just like you.”

“Good point,” Chance admits, then we take a selfie and say goodbye and head our separate ways.

Shoulders back, head up, I make for the international concourse. This is the life. Young, single, and with only me to worry about.

For now, I put aside the bigger dreams, the ones I’ll write about in this journal. I’ll deal with them once I settle into a new city in about twelve hours.

First things first. Here I come, shitty flight, Led Zeppelin-blasting neighbors, and horrid brown water.

Bring it on. Because everything at the top of my “to-do in London” list will come after-hours.

Tags: Lauren Blakely Hopelessly Bromantic Duet Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net