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)
I almost thought she was crying.
But her eyes were dry, not red. No telltale marks or swollen features. Yet something in her expression hinted at holding back tears.
What bothered me almost as much as the fact that she might have been unhappy was the fact that I cared at all.
She told me she was fine.
I don’t have the right to pry when this is a business arrangement and nothing more. So I kept my foolish thoughts to myself, escorted her to the car, and tried not to watch her the entire time I drove.
She looks like pearl tonight.
Palest mother-of-pearl, a living glimmer of white, a hint of glitter that disappears the instant you try to stare at it too long. Even her hair carries a touch of glitter, and it’s goddamned magnificent.
She looks like the moon fell into the sun and mixed together in a swirl of radiance.
I shouldn’t notice her so much, but it’s getting harder not to.
She’s quiet on the drive there.
It’s rare that Elle is ever this quiet, and the absence of her voice is—
Fuck, it shouldn’t bother me.
Her chatter, her jokes, her teasing, her insufferable wickedness—they all drive me batshit insane. I should be grateful for a little peace and quiet.
Still, I watch her from the corner of my eye, and wonder.
Am I asking too much of her?
No matter what I might offer in return, it’s nothing but money and a nudge up the career ladder. Material things, and I’ve had wealth for so long that I always remember how so much runs deeper than what can be bought.
I’ve bought Elle’s presence and cooperation, yes.
But is she paying in misery?
The words we exchange on the drive do little to reassure me, even if the mood settles more companionably.
While I have no room for romance in my life, I wouldn’t mind a friend.
Elle is everything that annoys me.
Too loud, too bright, too cheerful, too perky, a fucking morning lark.
She’s also a good person.
Warm, effusive, gentle, kind.
Not the sort of person you look down on, even if their personality grates like splinters under your fingernails.
Does it, though?
Or does she only grate at your stuffy ass because she reminds you that you built these walls around yourself—and now you don’t know how to tear them down?
As we find parking near the Space Needle, I pause, rubbing my temples and trying to push my worries away.
I’m supposed to be functional tonight. Whatever a waiting, eager public expects a man in love to look like.
Hell, I’m not sure if I was ever that in the past, before everything derailed.
Before the part of me that can belong in a relationship shattered forever.
I’ve never pretended to be anyone besides exactly who I am.
Somehow, my ex-wife put up with it for a few years, dragged me into her undertow, until the next thing I knew, I was wrapped up in her. I’m not sure if Charisma and I ever sincerely loved each other, but for a time we were enough in love with the idea of love.
Enough to get us down the aisle believing we’d make it despite the uncertainties.
Enough to buy a heaping pile of bullshit we fed ourselves.
And I still can’t say it wasn’t mostly my fault.
“August?”
Elle’s soft voice dashes my thoughts like delicate fingers parting a curtain. I lift my head, opening my eyes.
“Yeah?”
Her hazel eyes search mine in the darkness. I wonder sometimes what she sees when she looks at me.
“You’re brooding so loud I can’t hear myself think,” she says with a smile. “And not your usual stormy-storm. Or else I’d be giving you so much crap you’d pull over and leap out just to get away from me.”
Despite myself, I smile slightly.
She just draws it out of me lately.
“Just thinking about the lawsuit,” I lie. I think it would bother her to know I was worrying about her—never mind the fact that I’d be blurring the professional lines between us. “Also, whatever Aunt Clara isn’t telling me that could affect its outcome.”
“I do wonder what’s up with her . . .” Elle reaches for the car door handle—then stops with this self-conscious movement that tells me she remembers she’s supposed to be my fiancée and let me do publicly chivalrous things like opening doors for her. “When I spent the day with her, she seemed—I dunno—sad? Lost? But not guilty.”
“Yeah. Hang on.”
I slip outside and pull my long winter coat on against the wintry night. We had to park a few blocks down, and frankly I’m concerned about Elle’s bare legs.
I’m too damned caught up on what those legs would feel like wrapped around me as I open her door and offer her my hand, gripping her slim fingers and lifting her out with a little too much force. It makes her clutch my arm as she finds her footing with a gasp.