Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“Have you been to any exotic places to shoot penguins?” Oz asked as we entered my cabin and turned on the lights. Boo zipped past us into the cabin. The hairless terror immediately jumped up on the sofa and resumed her spot on the corner of the quilt as if she’d never left. “Or just lived here your whole life?”
“No, I’m not from here,” I said, moving to the fireplace to help warm things up. Oz disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a beer.
“I miss apple martinis,” he muttered as he eyed the beer. After taking a big swallow, he plopped on the sofa with a big harrumph, causing the tiny dog to fly several inches in the air. She landed in the same curled-up ball and seemed not to notice. “Where are you from?”
“Midwest,” I hedged.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do that mysterious shit. It’s annoying. Nobody cares. If you’re from Chicago, say Chicago. The place has three million fucking people. It’s not like I’m going to be able to track you down and find out your secret squirrel shit.”
“I’m from Chicago,” I admitted, though it was only part of the truth. As tempted as I was to tell him what he wanted to know, I couldn’t.
He gestured wildly before shouting, “Jesusfuckingchrist, was that so hard?”
I smiled to myself at this new side of Oz. I couldn’t help but wonder just how many sides of him there really were.
“Simmer down, drunkie,” I said, moving to sit on the other end of the sofa from him once the fire was steady. “Where’s the most exotic place you’ve traveled to on these… bird hunting expeditions?”
Oz looked adorably confused with a wrinkled forehead and tilted head. “What bird hunting expeditions?”
“Your shoots?”
“Jake, man, they’re photo shoots,” he said like he was explaining it to a kindergartner. “You know, for a doctor, you’re a little…” Instead of finishing the thought, he just shrugged and got distracted by the green, shirt-covered pillow on the sofa next to him.
I felt my cheeks heat with the realization I’d never disassembled it and put the shirt back in the closet.
“You kept it,” he whispered before looking up at me. “Why did you get so mad at me when I did this the other day?”
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to take the hurt look off his face, but how could I tell him the truth? How could I tell him everything that scarf represented to me?
Fear.
Regret.
Guilt.
All-consuming, life-changing guilt.
Before I had a chance to say anything, though, he was off on another babbling rant.
“It was like when Cocci got mad at me in Milan. Wasn’t fair. Guy’s an asshole.”
“What did he get mad at you for?”
“I moved his cheese.”
“You mean, metaphorically, like the self-help book?”
Oz looked at me like I was an idiot. “No, Jake. Like I literally moved his cheese. It was tempting me, and I was trying to drop a few pounds that weekend for a job. Fuckin’ brie, I swear to god. You know? Like, it’s unfair there’s such a thing as brie. And don’t even get me started on the brown sugar almond situation some people do to it. As if it needs improving. Not that I mind, because I mean… come on.”
“Who’s Cocci?” I asked, curious who I might want to be on the lookout for to punch in the face for doing anything to take the smile off Oz’s face.
“The fashion designer, duh.” He looked at me and must not have seen an ounce of recognition. “Cocci Borroni? The designer, Cocci Borroni?” His voice got higher with surprise and indignation.
“Don’t know the guy.”
“I guess you wouldn’t. You’re too…” He flapped his hands in my general direction with disgust. “You’re too… ugh. Just too. Yeah. Too.”
“Ignorant?” I asked.
“What? No.”
“Clueless?”
“Of course not,” Oz said, sliding his hand over his short hair again the way I’d seen him do several times earlier that day.
“Midwestern?” I teased.
“Yeah. That one. Too Midwestern.”
We looked at each other across the expanse of the sofa where the dog lay on her throne. The warm golden light from the fire danced across Oz’s creamy skin, lighting up those plump lips still damp from his last sip of beer. He was breathtaking.
“He stole my designs.”
The confession came in a tiny voice, and I found myself leaning across the dog to get closer, so I didn’t miss a word.
“Tell me,” I murmured.
His jaw seemed to wobble a bit before tightening. “I had an entire collection sketched out in my notebook. It was in my overnight bag when I was at his place. I never knew he saw it, but…” He took a breath and looked into the fire. “But when I saw my designs on the runway during his show, I knew right away what had happened. Years of coming up with those ideas… and now… he made them his, and I have nothing. Fucking nothing. Just another pretty face.”