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 know.” I slump in my chair, sighing—then slip my hand into my pocket for a small cotton handkerchief and offer it to Elle. “She let me send her home tonight, at least. It’s only a short-term solution, but it’s something.”
“I have a feeling you won’t let it go until you find something more permanent. I’ve noticed that once you get fixated on a problem, you sink your teeth in. You won’t let go.”
I almost flinch at those words.
Charisma once threw them at me in a much more accusatory light.
My single-minded laser focus was why I couldn’t see her as anything more than another problem to fix.
It may make me good at my job, yes.
It also makes me a shit human being.
Yet Elle said it fondly, still smiling as she took the handkerchief.
I watch her, puzzled. “You don’t find it off putting, how I am?”
“No.” No doubt, no uncertainty, her smile warmer than ever as she dabs her eyes. “It just means once you’ve set your mind to it, you won’t quit until you do what’s right.”
How does this girl have more faith in me than I have in myself?
She laughs, looking down at the damp handkerchief. “This is the second one of yours I’ve ruined. I still need to give you back the first.”
“I have too many. It’s one of those things I picked up from my aunt and her southern upbringing. A gentleman always carries a handkerchief, especially in case a lady needs it.”
The change of subject is almost welcome, easing the crushing weight on my mind.
I’ve never been able to talk about what happened with anyone like this.
Not even with Deb or Aunt Clara.
I never wanted them to feel obligated to comfort me. Yet I didn’t feel like Elle was taking on a burden or an obligation. She genuinely wanted to know, and some part of me craved her acceptance.
Still, I think I’ve had enough honesty for one night. Especially when I realize that as I’ve been watching her, I’ve slowly been stroking my thumb over the engagement ring on her finger.
Goddamn, I need to get my head on straight.
Oblivious to my brooding, Elle squeezes my hand lightly and delicately folds the handkerchief on the table.
“Should I start calling you Rhett? I’d say Ashley, but he’s way too mild mannered. You’re a walking storm cloud.” She grins teasingly. “And just as rude as Rhett too.”
“And you’re just as impetuous as Scarlett O’Hara,” I counter. “You just put a brighter face on it.”
“Hey!” She laughs, even though her eyes are still red rimmed, her lips swollen from crying. “C’mon. Scarlett O’Hara was an absolute wildcat. I thought you said I was a kitten.”
“Kittens have claws too,” I point out.
“Teeny claws!”
“Small claws still hurt. And before you say anything, bunnies also have claws.” I arch a brow. “So if you call me Rhett, I will most certainly call you Scarlett.”
Elle sticks her tongue out, a little pink barb.
It’s suddenly like the spontaneous confession never happened.
We’re back on even footing, except we were never on such even ground before. I kept myself close, while Elle was willing to let me into her world from day one.
The more she knows leaves us on a level field.
I do think, given time, I could call this woman a friend.
Friendship is why I’m lingering on the damp gleam to her lips, and the way the overhead lights gather in tiny galaxies against the hollow of her throat.
And friendship is why I hesitate to release her hand as the world’s most annoying waiter chooses that moment to return with our food. He glances at both of us significantly as he sets our plates, wineglasses, and a chilled bottle of rosé on the table, lingering longer on Elle—and there’s something in his voice as he asks, “Is everything all right?”
I bitterly wonder if my reputation precedes me now.
If this stranger thinks I’ve been such a colossal asshole that I’ve pushed Elle to tears in public.
If anything, it’s the fact that she’s been so kind to me that her empathy was too much for both of us.
“Everything’s fine, except now I’m embarrassed. This big idiot told me he wants to elope,” Elle answers seamlessly. “He knows I get emotional and cry in public when he says things like that.”
Her laugh is totally on point.
The waiter lets out a sympathetic gasp, nearly fluttering.
With quick, capable hands, he uncorks the wine, fills our glasses, and leaves the bottle on the table for us. “Congratulations! I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate. Enjoy your meal.”
“We will,” I answer.
Somehow, I even force a smile that comes easier than trying to mold engineered steel with my bare hands.
The waiter twirls off, more obnoxiously cheerful than ever.
Elle flashes me the smile of a coconspirator and picks up one of her truffle fries. “Sorry. I ad-libbed. Shall we?”