Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“We should change that.” He grabs a roll and takes a bite out of it, “Though, I have to admit when we first started our agreement, there were times I wanted you to shut up. Now I’d rather talk to you than anyone else, besides Scarlet or my mom.”
“Nice to know you don’t see me as a blow-up doll you can fuck whenever you want.” I shove a fork full of turkey into my mouth and chew it slowly, watching his face for a reaction.
“Oh, I still see you as the girl I can fuck whenever I want, however I want, for as long as I want. The difference now is that part of me respects you. We won’t ever be equals, not in this world, not with all your father has done, but that doesn’t mean I have to hate you outright. It doesn’t mean I can’t be civil with you and enjoy what we share.”
My lips part, and my hand freezes with a fork full of food midway to my mouth. I’m shocked and happy and uncertain because I think that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.
It takes me a moment to ask, but I do.
“What do we share?”
“Pain. Anger. Loneliness. We’re more alike than you think.”
Silence grows between us, but in that silence, I know he’s right. We’re more alike than either of us let on.
The tension breaks when Quinton grabs a bottle of wine that’s sitting to his right. The space is small enough that he can reach across the table and grab my glass. Without asking, he pours me a cup of wine and places the glass back down on the table. I watch the bubbles pop for a moment, thinking about the last time he offered me wine.
My silence must be an unspoken question.
“If you’re worried this is a set-up, don’t be. I’m not going to hurt you. This isn’t a trap. I want you to enjoy dinner. No one should have to be alone on a holiday.”
I swallow the stupid emotions that are building at the back of my throat because of him. I don’t know why he’s being so kind to me lately, why he’s gone from tormenting me to treating me like a friend, but I don’t like it. Without an answer, there isn’t a point in dwelling on it, so I grab the glass and bring it to my lips.
I take a hesitant sip, the fruity tang of the liquid exploding on my tongue, and I gulp down a little more than I should. It’s refreshing and crisp. I almost want to ask him for more but place my glass back down and dig back into my food.
After a few bites, I choose to speak again. “There is no way you made all of this.”
Quinton spears a piece of turkey on his fork. “We both know if I tried to cook this, I’d burn the whole university to the ground.”
“Then who did?”
“Back home, we have a cook. She always makes Thanksgiving dinner for us. There is nothing better than her holiday dinners. I didn’t want to go home since I’ll be home for Christmas, but I also didn’t want to miss out on dinner, so yeah, that brings us to the present.”
“Your family must really love you if they had an entire Thanksgiving meal prepared and shipped here.”
Quinton lifts a brow. “Don’t act like you don’t know who my father is. Is it really that crazy to think he would have our chef make Thanksgiving dinner and have it delivered?”
I want to say yes, but I know it’s not. Xander might be vicious, cunning, and a criminal, but the love he has for his children and wife shines through all those things. Even if I don’t agree with the way I’ve been treated, I understand why he hates my father. I understand all of it, and I wish like hell my mother and father cared about me as much as Quinton’s do.
“Well, thank you for inviting me.” My cheeks heat even before I speak the words. “It’s nice to not spend the entire day alone, and the food helps a lot.”
Quinton grins, and then asks, “More wine?”
I nod, continuing to fill my belly, but at a much slower pace. A door opens behind me, and I freeze mid-bite. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t think of Ren being here until this moment.
“Hey, you started eating without me, douchebag,” Ren’s voice carries across the space.
Quinton finishes filling the glass and hands it back to me just as Ren saunters up to the table. I tense, waiting for the snide comment or a dirty look, but none of those things happen. He pulls out a chair, grabs a plate, and starts piling food on.
“Fuck, they even set pumpkin pie.” He beams, taking a slice and placing it beside his turkey.