Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Yes, it’s been a few days.
Brutally long days where I’ve dehydrated myself crying, now and then checking my phone and hoping.
But of course there’s nothing from the real Gruffykins.
I won’t mortify myself by texting him first.
I’m so not begging.
I can only be so bold before I get the message, and he made his message loud and clear.
I feel stupid, really.
One moment I’ll be fine; the next I’ll try to force a smile because it’s what I always do. I’ll remember how August was one of the only people who could tell when it wasn’t real.
He cared enough to notice, and that breaks me again.
Usually, the tears don’t stop until the migraine hits. Then I just hide in my room, pressing a cold cloth to my face and sulking until I feel like Ophelia, wasting away.
I pick up the little silk square, running my thumb over it.
My mouth tries to do that quivery pucker that warns more tears are imminent.
God, I’m confused.
He’s a walking contradiction.
The man shut me out, let me in, pulled me close, pushed me away, until I think even he didn’t know what he wanted, so there was no hope for me.
But if he doesn’t want me, that’s the end of it.
I’ll just have to let it hurt until it doesn’t, and then eventually I’ll—
Ugh.
One day, I’ll fall out of love with August Marshall.
That shouldn’t feel so soul crushing.
But real-life love stories don’t work like they do in movies.
I set the pocket square aside and go back to rummaging around in the box.
When I hear the doorbell ring, I don’t think much of it. Probably just a delivery person wanting Gran to sign for one of her special-order heirloom seed packets or something similar.
So I’m surprised when I hear the door creak open, followed by a familiar voice.
My head jerks up. My stomach drops.
Is that . . . ?
“Ellie?” Grandma calls up. “You have company.”
I straighten up, dust off my clothes, then pad out into the hall and peer over the banister. Clara Marshall looks up at me with a smile, holding up my fuzzy slippers.
She’s as stylish as ever in a blue-fringed drape over a shimmery white silk top, loose, embroidered chiffon ivory pants, and slim blue strappy heels.
“I washed these for you, Elle,” she says warmly. “I thought you’d need them back.”
I could burst into tears at the sight of her.
Despite everything, I still respect Clara Marshall so much, and it’s good to just see her and know she’s okay.
But it also stings that she’s the one who’s brought my slippers.
Not August.
I smile anyway and head downstairs, taking them gratefully.
“Thank you. How are you . . .” I fumble awkwardly. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, you know how these things go,” she deflects. There’s something troubled behind her eyes. “I’ve been very busy. I’ve certainly missed your help.”
“Oh—I’m so sorry, I just—you know, I thought after everything . . .” I scuff my feet, looking down. “I thought I was sorta fired.”
There’s an awkward pause that Gran fills with a clap of her hands. “Well now! This is tea conversation.”
I smile.
Clara hesitates. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time . . .”
“Nonsense. There’s always time for tea.” Gran taps Clara’s arm lightly. “Do come with me. I’m so delighted to finally meet you, Miss Marshall. Elle talks about you nonstop.”
“Grandma!” I hiss.
Clara gives me a patiently amused look and follows Gran inside.
“Well, I’m quite flattered, but I must say I can’t stop talking about this wonderful young lady too. She’s a darling—kind, lovely to be around, and such a help to me. Not to mention how brilliantly talented she is.”
“Clara!” I gasp, going red up to my ears.
Oh my God, are the older women in my life all trying to kill me today?
Gran and Clara trade wickedly amused looks.
“My,” Gran says mildly. “That’s a lovely shade of pink on her, isn’t it? Really complements her complexion.”
“Absolutely,” Clara answers. “She should wear that color more often.”
Mortifying.
I glower at them both while they descend into casual chatter like they’ve known each other their whole lives. Clara compliments the vines and ferns that have practically taken over the house.
Gran enthusiastically explains how she cultivates outdoor flowering vines to thrive inside. It saves me from more embarrassment, at least, as I set my slippers aside and help Gran to put tea on.
It’s jasmine today. The weather’s getting a little warmer, and jasmine tea is always good in spring.
The atmosphere feels relaxed and light by the time we settle at the table in the atrium with our teacups.
Clara breaks off from exclaiming over the delicate lace of the table doilies and looks at me, smiling over a sip of her tea before setting the cup down.
“The truth is, Elle, I had an ulterior motive for coming here. Don’t look so frightened—I’m not here to make things worse.”