Total pages in book: 225
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
“Oh. Where are you staying?” I ask shakily.
“I’ve been at the homestead.”
“Oh,” I say.
“You’re not getting a divorce,” he informs.
“Did I miss the part where I asked for one?” I ask.
“Chuck’s log says you were in a lawyer’s office last week for two hours,” he accuses.
“Chuck’s log?”
“I never got the chance to ask Kenny to stop having logs made.”
“And of course you read them anyway.”
He doesn’t respond.
“That was a corporate lawyer, not a divorce lawyer. I was making Frank a partner.”
“I bought that company for you,” he says with accusation.
“He’s got a lot of experience and connections in the industry. He’s got a lot of great ideas, too. Besides… I need the help.”
He says nothing.
He made the company completely mine. And when I started working there again, the fact that he put it in the name Chloe Steele is how I found out he had my name legally changed, too. It’s how I have to sign things, which I found extremely annoying as I got used to it.
“It’s three in the morning, Derek. You left the hospital three days ago. So, why are you here now?”
His eyes move to me, and he stares at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. But he doesn’t say anything, and my bladder is nagging at me, so I get out of bed, pull my robe on, and go to the bathroom.
When I come out, he’s still standing in the same spot. He’s staring at the bed.
I walk out, go down the hall to my office and grab the envelope from my briefcase.
His eyes are on what’s in my hand when I get back. And they’re like dark glaciers. Colder than I’ve even seen on his father or his brother Elijah. I feel the chill straight through to my marrow.
“Don’t you wanna know what this is?” I ask.
“Do I?” he fires back.
I shrug. “Okay, forget it.” I toss the envelope to the table.
He stares me down with the stone-cold expression.
“Is there something else?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s three in the morning. I’d like to try to get some more sleep, so if you just came here to mean-mug me, mission accomplished.”
“Mean mug you?”
“Stare meanly. Intimidatingly.”
He turns away and leaves.
I don’t know what the hell that was, but I lie in bed pondering it, pondering him, until the sun is up, and I decide that although it’s the weekend, I’d might as well get up and make myself useful. More useful than staring into the void pondering the facts, especially the obvious one – Derek went into the hospital vowing he loves me, but came out looking like he now despises me.
When I get to the kitchen, I startle. Derek is drinking milk from the carton. He’s in a pair of track pants, a white T-shirt. Bare feet.
And there, on his left hand, is his wedding ring.
He’s still wearing it.
My heart skips a beat at the sight of it.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” I say.
“I live here,” he mutters, not looking at me, tossing the empty milk carton into the trash.
I frown as he walks away. “You drank all the milk?”
“I needed to wash down my meds,” he mutters without turning around.
I don’t know where he’s been all day, don’t know where he slept last night, but by eight o’clock, I’m dead on my feet from not having slept much the night before. When I get into bed, uncertain if sleep will elude me or not, I hear noise. Footsteps getting closer, then receding. Getting closer, then receding again. I step into the hallway and see Derek’s back. He’s walking down the hall.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He whirls around and looks at me with a curled lip. He storms toward me and the intensity on his face, his body language, they make me back up. I stumble a little, but catch myself and plaster myself against the wall beside the door to the bedroom.
“Stopping myself,” he rasps, thrusting a hand through his hair.
“From what?” I ask.
He gets four or five feet away and stops.
“They’re not working,” he tells me.
“What?” I ask, trying to shrink.
“The pills.”
I blink a couple of times.
“What are they supposed to do that they’re not doing?”
Is he having violent thoughts? He looks so angry.
He’s not answering my question.
“Your hand isn’t twitching,” I observe. It looks steady to me.
He lifts his hand, turning it to first examine the front, then his palm.
He abruptly lunges, caging me in against the wall with both palms.
I gasp and stare at him wide-eyed.
He’s breathing hard. He’s got beads of sweat above his eyebrows, above his upper lip. His pupils are huge. What’s happening here? Is Derek having a psychotic break?
“They’re not stopping my thoughts, they’re not stopping my urges.”
“Derek, you’re scaring me.”
“Know what my urges are, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Do you want to know?” he demands.