Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 97574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Chapter Twelve
Ty
All afternoon, I think of Indigo.
The deep purple-red of her lips. The long curve of her neck. The delicate strap of her lingerie.
Is she wearing it now? Under that thin black tank top?
Matching knickers under her torn jeans.
Or maybe the gorgeous backless number.
Or some dress designed specifically to drive me out of my mind.
Who am I kidding? I'm already out of my mind. This entire plan, this idea—it's crazy.
I can hear my brother's voice in my head. Mocking me the way I've mocked him.
One heartbreak and you're giving up on love? You're tougher than that, Ty.
A year ago, I'd have rolled my eyes. Asked him who the fuck he was to give me advice, since he reacted to his divorce by moving across the Atlantic and putting an expiration date on every one of his arrangements.
Then he met Eve. Fell in love. Started singing the praises of trust and devotion.
It's horribly annoying.
Even if she's perfect for him. Sharp, wounded, smart enough to challenge him.
She's a lot like Indigo. They have the same don't fuck with me attitude born and bred in New Yorkers. Only it runs deeper. Enough, it informs their worldview, bleeds into their taste in art and music.
Eve is passionate about words, books, The Handmaid's Tale especially. She's something between a fan and a critic. She usually acts more like a thirty-year-old than a nineteen-year-old, but the teen in her breaks free when she discusses her favorite book.
I know her taste. Her life. Her routine.
I know my brother's girlfriend better than I know my fiancée.
But I want to know her.
To fix her favorite breakfast every morning, watch her groan over her tea, listen to her sing along with her favorite album.
Is it still Back to Black?
Or has she found something new in the last three years?
I don't know her life. Not enough.
I know she loves spicy food. That she doesn't care for sweets. That she lives and breathes music.
Loves her sister more than anything.
Enough she watches entire football games.
It's not enough. I want more. Every drop of her world.
I want it the way I want to strip her out of her lingerie.
It clouds my judgment. Makes my thoughts hazy.
I finish work. Text Paloma on my way to the restaurant.
Ty: Are you finished?
Paloma: Almost. I'll send her to the bar when she's ready. Feed her well. It's been a long day.
Ty: You think I don't know how to take care of my fiancée?
Paloma: There's something else on your mind. Before food.
A laugh escapes my lips. She's rarely this direct with me. It must be something about Indigo.
No, there is something about Indigo.
I need to protect her. Even though she's tall and tough and strong.
Especially because she's tall and tough and strong.
She's right, of course.
That picture. It's still right there, on my cell, begging for all my attention.
But she hasn't replied yet.
And I fight fair.
Victory is only sweet if it's earned.
I want to win this game. But first, I need her to agree to play.
I arrive early. Claim a table in the corner. One with enough privacy for conversation, but enough visibility someone will see us.
This restaurant isn't my favorite, but the food is good, the drinks are strong, the view is gorgeous.
Even I appreciate the soft glow of sunset.
New York may not be London, but it's beautiful all the same.
I can already see the passion in Indie’s eyes, hear her gasp, feel the tremble of excitement—
Fuck, I need my head in the game.
I order a Manhattan. Thank the waitress when she returns.
She smiles, bats her eyelashes, lingers at the table.
Small talk.
Because she wants a better tip? Or because she wants to fuck me?
Usually, I can tell. Right now, I'm too tuned to Indie. I don't give a fuck what this woman wants.
She calls all my attention as she appears at the entrance.
Long legs. Patent leather. A thick silver bracelet on a delicate wrist.
Indigo steps into the restaurant in a short black dress and knee-high boots.
Fuck. All the breath leaves my body at once.
The neckline cuts between her breasts, ending in a sharp v beneath her chest.
How the fuck is that thing staying on?
It needs to be on my floor.
She needs to be in my lap.
The world needs to make sense. And that's the only thing that does.
The waitress turns. Follows my gaze.
Gasps. Or maybe it's a sigh.
I can't tell. I don't care.
My entire universe is Indigo. Her deep blue eyes. Her wine lips. Her long legs.
She spots me. Flashes the world's most dazzling smile as she crosses the room.
"Ty." She sets her purse—some tiny rectangular thing—on the table. "You look gorgeous."
"Gorgeous again?"
She nods of course. Looks to the waitress, unsure why the woman is here.
But Indigo is smart. She slips into her role right away.
"A Manhattan." She smiles. "However he's having it." She nods a thank you.
The waitress pouts as she leaves.