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)
When I make myself look back to her, she shakes her head, the few loose tendrils of her hair grazing her slender throat.
“I can’t explain it,” she says. “But that whole thing with Marissa—it seemed like it hurt you.”
I sigh.
I don’t understand how this woman reads me so easily when I’ve spent so long making sure no one can ever read me in detail.
“How is it,” I deflect, “that you see the shit I can’t stand to look at?”
“We’re never objective about ourselves. Sometimes we look past the things we really need to deal with.” Almost shyly, her fingers curl against my wrist, this anchor holding me to the light so I can’t slide into the darkness. “Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind?”
I shouldn’t.
I should remind her that we’re not even technically friends, barely even colleagues, strictly employer and employee playing our parts.
But I can’t do that to her.
I can’t be so cruel when she’s offering her kindness.
Even if Elle were someone I loathed, my sense of fairness wouldn’t allow it.
Still, I don’t know how to say these words either. They’re just feelings I’ve been holding on to for so long without ever unpacking them, laying them out, looking at them clearly so I can grind them to a pulp.
It’s grief. It’s resentment. It’s confusion, frustration, an urge to lash out and punch the past until it’s no longer a threat.
More than anything, it’s guilt.
I stare into those golden brown eyes a minute longer, then look away.
Somehow, it’s easier to be honest when I’m speaking to the glittery Seattle skyline, rather than to the lovely woman sitting across from me, asking for the tiniest sliver of my heart.
Where the fuck do I even start?
“I’m sure you know the rumors about my dead wife,” I tell her.
“I don’t. You asked me not to pry, remember? So I resisted every urge to google and practically taped Lena’s mouth shut.”
Those soft words almost force me to look back at her, surprise rippling through me.
“You did?”
“I mean . . . I wasn’t going to hurt you that way. It seemed serious.” Her mouth twists into a small, self-deprecating smile. “It’s not a hard request to honor.”
Is she even for real?
The girl has no clue how many people would disagree.
How many people who make a hobby, an art out of feasting on the delicacy of others’ miseries.
Elle reaches across the table again, offering me her outstretched hand with her palm up and her fingers curled invitingly.
“Did you want to tell me about her, August?”
I don’t know who I am right now.
Gone is the man who would have looked at that hand scornfully and rejected it outright in a crude attempt to deny any need for human comfort.
All I am right now is shattered ceramic, sharp and cold and broken.
I’ll admit I might need that hand to hold what’s left of me together.
Still, it’s damnably hard to reach for her.
Hard to cross my own boundaries and move, until my fingertips rest in her palm, leaving subtle indents in her soft flesh.
It hurts like hell when she smiles and curls her hand around mine, holding it so gently.
Fuck.
I’m the one who’s supposed to be protecting her, dammit, not using her as a crutch.
“I should tell you about her,” I say slowly, looking down at our hands. The pale cream of her skin contrasts against my darker tan. Her skin is moonlight, mine is sun, yet she’s the one who shines so brilliantly, while I’m a pallid reflection of her light. “She’s the reason why the tabloids were able to twist our interactions into this sordid scandal. The rumor mill was less than kind about the circumstances around her death. In fact, they were downright barbaric. They blamed me for everything.” I swallow like I’m choking down glass. “Hell, some days I’m not sure they’re wrong.”
“Take your time,” Elle urges softly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, August. But if you need to . . . I’m listening. Say what you need to say.”
What I need to say.
I look up from our joined hands, searching her warm, open face. She’s so ready to take whatever agony I share.
I don’t understand how she can be real.
I just hope the shadows inside me won’t darken her, won’t tarnish her light for letting them loose.
“Her name was Charisma,” I start. “Like every relationship, I thought we were in love.”
That’s the bitter truth.
If we hadn’t lied to ourselves—if we hadn’t gotten as far as we had—maybe she would still be alive.
Once the words start, it’s impossible to stop the avalanche.
“Truthfully, we were less in love and more suited for each other.” I lower my eyes to our hands again. My fingers tighten on Elle’s. “She was a rising actress. I was a high-powered executive. We looked good together on the red carpet. If not for me being on her arm for years, the tabloids wouldn’t care what I do with my personal life. Billionaires only make headlines when they live flashy lives and send rocket ships to the moon, not spend half their time buried in supply chain indicators trying to figure out how to save a few million a year from the cost of shipping rebar. Drama aside, I’m a pretty boring man.”