Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“You don’t?”
“No. I’m not convinced it would be safe. Neither is my mother—in fact, she is suddenly sure Highway 31 is teeming with serial killers who will murder you in your sleep. She made me promise to keep you at my place.”
“Oh.”
Safety and convenience and a promise to his mother.
Not sexy.
“Listen, I’m sure I’ll be fine at the motel,” I said, smoothing my dress over my thighs. “It’s only for a few weeks. And maybe I can rent a car or something.”
“Blair.”
I refused to meet his eyes, embarrassed that I was hurt over this. “Anyway, I’ll figure it out. Sorry this is falling on you.”
“Hey.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist. “I want you to stay with me.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I should have said that first. Sorry.” He lifted his shoulders. “I’m not good at saying that stuff out loud.”
“That’s okay.”
He smiled, a crooked little half-smirk. “Come here.”
I let him tug me toward him, carefully crawling over our picnic so our lips could meet. His kiss was soft and sweet, desire mixed with apology. Pulling back a little, I smiled. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being so good to me. I promise you will not be stuck with me forever.”
“Let’s not worry about it now, okay?”
“Okay.” Kissing him once more, I giggled when I heard his stomach roar like an angry lion. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good.” I sat back again and picked up my fork. “Dig in.”
“What is this called?” he asked, looking at the galette on his plate. “It looks like dessert.”
“It’s galette. It’s a pastry, but it’s savory. It’s got onions and spinach and Gruyère cheese. Taste it.”
He stuck a forkful in his mouth and moaned. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“Right? It’s like dinner and dessert had a baby.” I dug into mine too. “I make all kinds of these, some sweet and some savory. They’re perfect for lunch. And picnics. They’re good hot or cold.”
Griffin’s was half gone already. “I could eat a whole one by myself.”
I laughed. “Have as much as you’d like. I made it for you.”
As the sun went down, the gulls quieted and the crickets got noisier. We ate and drank, made plans for painting the lobby tomorrow after the garage closed, and discussed the possibility of Andy taking on the task of social media.
“Would I have to pay him more?” Griffin asked, forking up his last bite.
“Well, yes. But it’s going to be worth it. Think of it as an advertising cost.”
He grumbled under his breath but eventually conceded. “Fine. You can ask him.”
When we were full, I packed up the leftovers while Griffin poured the last of the champagne into our glasses. We moved the basket out of the way and sat hip to hip, our legs stretched out in front of us, my bare feet and Griffin’s boots crossed at the ankle. The light was dusky and purple now, the surface of the water totally calm.
I sipped my champagne. “Can I ask you something?”
“I feel like I’m going to regret this, but okay.”
“Earlier, when I mentioned that you’d make a great dad, you said something about life not going as planned.”
Silence.
“What did you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “Exactly what it sounds like.”
“So did you think about having a family at one point?”
He finished his champagne before answering, then reached over to drop the empty glass into the basket. “There was a time in my life I thought I would.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Was it with Kayla? Cheyenne mentioned her last night, and—”
“Jesus Christ, my sister has a big mouth, just like everyone else in this town. I said I don’t want to talk about it.” His tone was edged with anger, which should have been my cue to shut up, but of course, I didn’t.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I was just wondering because—”
“Well, stop wondering, okay? You don’t know me at all. You met me three fucking days ago. You have no idea whether I’d make a good father or not, and it doesn’t fucking matter, because I don’t want kids.”
“Got it. Sorry.”
“This isn’t real, you know,” he snapped. “This thing with you and me isn’t real. It’s just a joke, and it’s temporary.”
I nodded, feeling like he’d suddenly pulled a knife and gutted me. Hugging my knees, I stared straight ahead. My throat grew unbearably tight, but I refused to cry.
Thirty horrible seconds passed, and then he flopped onto his back. Covered his face with his hands. “Fuck, Blair.”
I stayed quiet.
“I’m an asshole.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did. But I get it—a girl like me probably does seem like a joke to you.”
He sat up and exhaled. “I didn’t say you were a joke. I said us—I meant the marriage thing.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.” Again, he rubbed his face with both hands. “Look, I don’t like talking about the past. With anyone, not just you. And the whole thing about having a family is something I get all the time from my mother, so it sets me off fast. I’m sorry.”