Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“That seems like an unusual topic,” Mrs. Quartermocker said.
“So much of poetry employs suggestion and metaphor,” her husband said. “It’s why it’s so powerful.”
“Romantic,” Maynard said dubiously, raising one brow. “I didn’t take you for a poet, Gage. You must perform the piece that stole Ms. Castle’s heart.”
The young man who clearly considered himself some kind of modern-day beatnik, stood and placed his martini on the table. “You absolutely must.” Before I knew it, he was pulling my chair out so I was forced to stand and being jostled toward the grand piano that was situated up a step on a higher portion of flooring. The young man returned to the table where cards were being played and took a seat next to his wife, four pairs of eyes staring at me expectantly, just as another older man walked in. “Timothy,” Maynard greeted. “I’m so glad you made it. Did the play get out early?”
“No, it was a wicked bore and I decided to leave.”
“Well, have a seat. We’re just about to hear Gage Buchanan’s metaphorically charged poem on…cymbals.”
“Oh, are we? How exciting. I used to dabble in poetry when I was younger. It’s been ages since I’ve heard a good poem.” Timothy pulled out a chair and sat down.
Now there were five sets of eyes peering at me expectantly, one pair of bright blue ones shimmering with barely suppressed mirth.
I would kill her after this. Slowly.
Cymbals…cymbals. I cleared my throat, my mind racing. I’d spoken at hundreds of business meetings completely off the cuff. I was great at it. As smooth as honey.
I could do poetry.
Poetry was easy.
I extended my arm and tipped my chin. “Cymbals clash and cymbals bang. I like cymbals, clang…clang. Clang.”
I lowered my arm and looked at the people watching me from the table. Mrs. Quartermocker coughed and then covered her mouth, the three men stared speechlessly, and Rory’s face was practically purple as she obviously held her breath.
Mrs. Quartermocker’s husband looked as if he was working a complex math problem in his head.
“Well, er, that was…” Maynard started.
“Unique,” the man named Timothy said, drawing the word out. I recognized him from a few social events, though I couldn’t recall what he did. All I knew was that he’d just saved me and presented the perfect opportunity. I stepped down from the higher area of floor. “Now that there’s another player, what do you say we leave this round to the professionals and have a drink, Rory?”
She stood up so fast, her chair wobbled. “That’s a marvelous idea. A drink. Yes,” she said breathlessly.
“The bar is just around the corner,” Mr. Siggins said. “Please, help yourself to whatever you’d like.”
We exited the room and turned the corner to the wet bar, featuring a marble counter and glass bistro shelving above, stacked with every type of liquor imaginable. Rory looked over her shoulder and then pulled me as we both hurried out of that room and down a hall, Rory holding her hand over her mouth as giggles obviously threatened to burst forth.
“I should kill you,” I whispered as we walk-ran.
She did laugh then, and I grabbed her hand and we turned down another hall, safely out of sight of anyone exiting the room where the bridge game was being held.
“That was the worse poem I’ve ever heard,” she said, bending forward as though her stomach hurt from holding back laughter.
I chuckled then too, turning away and then back toward her as I recalled the looks on their faces. “Never in my life have I looked more ridiculous than that,” I said.
Her mostly silent laughter dwindled, but her lips remained tipped. “I like when you’re being ridiculous,” she said. “You should do it more often.”
My own smile faded. “You seem to bring it out in me.” My heart thumped and for whatever reason, Travis’s words came back to me—Don’t worry, Buchanan, someday you’ll be chasing down cats too.
Is that what I’m doing now? My own version of chasing down cats? Acting outrageously for a woman because she brings out a side of me I’ve never met before? A side I’m not sure if I like, even if I’ve never smiled more in my life?
I broke eye contact. “Check out the art,” I said, waving my hand to the paintings decorating the walls. “There’s a lot of it.” Maynard Siggins was obviously a fan of art. I only hoped he dabbled in painting himself and had hung at least one of his own pieces.
His house was both comfortable and stylish. Not stuffy at all like all the other houses of the men who might be Rory’s father.
Please let this man be Rory’s father. Please let the reason he’s still single be that the one true love of his life disappeared without a trace and he still holds a torch for her. Rory’s mom had referenced a family needing him, but that didn’t necessarily mean a wife and children. And if that was the case, wouldn’t it mean he’d welcome Rory with open arms? I wanted that for her. She was good and kind and had the brightest spirit I’d ever known. She deserved to be loved by as many people as possible. She deserved to be claimed by both sides of her family and feel that sense of belonging that I’d enjoyed all my life.