Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
But it didn’t take long at all for the raging, arrogant jackass to come out, did it?
If I could’ve seen past his physical perfection and through my raging hormones, I would’ve kept a safe distance.
A man who does a good deed and then tries to punish someone for it isn’t worth a single second of love fever.
Memories attack me like kitten claws, darting through my brain, demanding attention.
Ward the handsome, too intriguing stranger at my apartment, feeding me a sandwich.
Ward the bosshole, working me half to death, always spitting coffee when I struck back.
Ward the man, the lover, the fake who got too real.
Ward the bitter memory, the hole in my heart, the grumpy, sexy, cruel thing I have to keep in a vault and bury in the center of the Earth.
And I’m doing a pretty pathetic job of that right now.
I take a deep breath, release, and retreat to the stairwell. I’m not strong enough for this exhibit yet.
That’s okay.
I know where I’ll find my true love. I walk downstairs and out the back door to the sculpture garden.
The eclectic statues never hurt, but they don’t offer me much peace today. They’ve lost their magic. Their normal beauty feels tainted, and I can’t enjoy it.
I sit down on a bench, hugging my arms around my waist like I can hold myself together.
This sucks rotten eggs.
I feel like a crazy person, wandering around this beautiful place and suffocating, too trapped in the past to enjoy the art.
Maybe I should just Netflix and chill with my bad self until I feel human, and worry about it then. I could go home and start emailing old clients to see if anyone needs help with a project.
My creativity might be tapped out, but if someone bites, it could be the jump-start I need.
A woman in a grey dress wearing dark sunglasses with a burgundy scarf over her head sits beside me. I’m a little annoyed when there must be five other benches, and only one of them is populated.
“How are you doing, dear?”
What? That voice?
“Beatrice?” I blink, wondering if I’m hallucinating.
Shock knifes through me.
Jesus. He’s using his sick grandmother to harass me now?
But then again, would she ever agree to being Ward’s messenger?
Nah.
One look at Beatrice Brandt’s tense expression tells me she wouldn’t be here unless she wanted.
“Do you know why I hired you?” she asks quietly, looking over her shades.
“No clue.” I rub one eye, checking one more time to see if she disappears.
Nope.
“You attached a personal statement with your application,” Beatrice says. “In it, you called yourself a dreamer, and it resonated instantly. Dreamers are something we all needed then, and still do. My family was short on dreams, and has been for a while, including yours truly.”
I tilt my head, unsure where she’s going.
“No one ever recovered from my husband’s death, and the boys just wanted to not be mistaken for their parents. They grew up in the firm. I’m not sure it’s something either of them would have chosen under other circumstances.”
“I can’t speak for Nick, but I can’t imagine Ward being anything but a CEO,” I say, wondering what she’s looking for.
She gives me that regal smile. “He loves to be in charge, but ordering people around isn’t his true passion. I know my grandson.”
Do you? I wonder.
“Some people just find something they’re good at and stick with it,” I say, hoping I don’t sound bitter.
Beatrice nods.
“Maybe so. The point is, I wanted you around, Paige, because we all needed to learn how to dream again. I needed to dream. I’d let my own vision of designing a breathtaking hotel grow stale and lifeless when we accidentally caught it like a butterfly in the spring. I couldn’t let go. I let my big, clumsy beast of a dream shove other dreams aside, and I forgot something simple—no one should ever dream alone. And my dreaming hasn’t been the same since I lost my husband.”
I slump back in the bench, mulling over her words. They’re a lot to ponder, but why?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Maybe I should come up with a reason to leave before she brings up Ward. “How are you feeling these days?”
She looks over her shades like a woman who can spot a change of subject from outer space.
“I just came back from Hawaii. I stayed longer than intended, but it was good for my heart. Then Nick told me about the mess going on here.”
Yep. We’re going to end up in Wardhole territory. I’m not sure what to say.
I don’t want to dis a brilliant old woman who feels like my grandma sometimes, but I can’t do this.
“Beatrice, respectfully, if you’re here on Ward’s behalf—”
“Oh, no,” she whips out instantly, shaking her head slowly. “I’m here to apologize for my own part in your suffering, Paige. The rambling prelude is my way of telling you this whole thing is my fault.”