Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I whirl around and look at him, standing there looking confidently at ease. He’s not the least bit remorseful about his actions over the last few minutes.
“What’s gotten into you? Why are you being like this?”
Nate fixes his shirt and looks at me drolly. “This is how I greet everybody. Don’t you remember the night we met?”
I lower my eyebrows menacingly. “Very funny. Just knock it off, will you? Andrew doesn’t deserve this.”
Nate’s jaw hardens infinitesimally. “I haven’t done anything to him.”
“Well you’ve completely ignored him. It’s rude to act like he’s not even here, talking to you. Be polite.”
He tips his chin up in defiance. “I’ll be however the hell I want to be considering this is my cottage and you’re my guest.”
“We’re your guests. Me and Andrew.”
He sniffs and looks away, wiping his hand down his jaw. Something dawns and he looks around, curious now. “You rearranged the room.”
“Well yes, it wasn’t in good shape before. I put a few things in the closet and cleared off the desk. I stole that pretty vase from downstairs, and don’t even think about taking it back.”
He smirks at my tone. I secretly think he enjoys when I’m like this—combative and hotheaded. That amusement in his eyes tugs the invisible tether between us. It’s always there, always pulling me toward him. Even now.
“When we go back downstairs, are you going to be nice?”
Nate’s eyebrows arch and he drags his hand through his hair. “Nice? You think I have it in me?”
“You’ve been nice to me before. On occasion.”
That smile again. Always so tempting…
I walk over, prepared to poke him in the chest until he falls into compliance, but the closer I get, the less I think it’s a good idea to touch him at all. Nate watches me approach with a predator’s focus, his gaze on my face, and then, more intently, on my mouth. Someone has sucked every bit of oxygen out of the room as we stand facing each other.
I’ve forgotten my objective in bringing him up here. Was it to argue or to…
I have to stop myself from leaning forward. It’s a physical ache, but Andrew is downstairs and everything is a mess and I’m mostly to blame for that.
“We should go back down,” I say, my voice weak and flimsy. I could easily be persuaded to stay.
Nate doesn’t move, and I realize I’m trembling now, nervous about what we’re about to do. Nate has this way of looking at me like he’s using a fine-tooth comb. He roves over all the parts of me that were carelessly tossed aside by everyone who came before him. Until now, I was part ghost, but Nate sees everything, even my secrets. I suspect he already knows what I’m trying so hard to fight against. With that realization, I suddenly feel so exposed and vulnerable. A shiver racks my spine and I whip open the door so I can head back down to Andrew. Nate and I have been up here long enough.
CHAPTER 22
SUMMER
I’ve never experienced a more tense dinner than this one, not even when Nate and I sat across the table from each other at The Dalesman Country Inn. The scraping of our silverware across our plates is the only sound beyond the crackling fire. Andrew picks up his wine glass, takes a drink, sets it down. I adjust my napkin, clear my throat. Andrew has tried and tried and tried to get a conversation going, but Nate is unwilling to reciprocate and I’m no help either.
When Nate and I came back downstairs after our chat in my room, Nate insisted on cooking alone, so I took Andrew into the living room to talk, but I wasn’t sure which topics were safe. Our past, present, and future seemed totally off limits, at least while Nate was in earshot, which left very little in the way of conversation starters. I picked his brain about everything to do with Emma and their group of friends back in New York. Technically, I’m a part of the group too, but not really. I’ve always belonged among them solely as an extension of Emma and Andrew.
“Has Emma said anything about what I’m doing?” I prodded, curious.
“About your work?” he asked.
I nodded.
“No, not really. I mean, she doesn’t really understand it, why you chose this over—” He saw my expression and cut himself off with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. She’ll come around.”
Will she? I worry our relationship is beyond repair. We’ve been in this new normal for over two years now.
“She’s rooting for us, of course,” he said with a timid smile. “She wants everything to go back to the way it was.”
I felt the guilt then, like a boulder sitting heavy in my stomach. With barely any effort at all, I could repair things with Andrew and win back the approval of Emma. It would be so easy to set everything as it was: reconstruct the dream house, walk back inside, and shut the door behind me.