Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I inhaled and slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, walking toward him. Luck was with me as a few people stood in front of him, listening. He often drew a small crowd, which always pleased me, especially if they dropped money in his case. I felt his eyes on me as I approached. At the last minute, I veered to the right and went past him with hurried steps. I dropped the wad of bills into the case and watched them settle next to some coins. His guitar playing faltered, but I kept going, feeling satisfied. He accepted it from everyone else. I was his most appreciative customer, and it was important to me.
I waited on the platform to head back to my parents’ side of town. I stepped on the train and sat down. Glancing up, I was met with those intense eyes through the glass. With his guitar in its case and slung over his shoulder, he had his hands on his hips, looking at me in disapproval from the short distance. Unable to help myself, I gave him a thumbs-up.
His smile appeared—the one that lit up my world, the dimple in his cheek deep and prominent. As the train pulled away, he stepped back, then, in an old-world gesture I didn’t expect, laid his hand over his heart.
Mine sped up at the sight.
“I thought you went home to change.”
I lifted my wine to my lips, stalling for time. “Brianna talked longer than I expected.”
“You could have called her from here.”
“She wanted to Skype.”
“You—”
“Enough questioning Charlotte, Charles,” my mother interrupted. “Is Brianna all right?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Man trouble,” I offered lamely.
My mother huffed through her nose, her impatience clear. She only approved of Brianna because of her parentage, not because she liked her as a person. I wasn’t sure my mother truly liked anyone. “There usually is with Brianna.”
My father made a strange noise. “At least she has a man in her life.”
My head fell back with a sigh. “Really, Dad? You can’t let up on that?”
He handed me the potatoes, frowning when I passed them on to my mother. “A woman your age should be married.”
“I’m only twenty-six—hardly in my dotage. When I meet the right person, I’ll get married.”
My father made a noise in the back of his throat, but otherwise changed the subject.
“Is that all you’re going to eat? I noticed you barely ate your sandwich at lunch during the meeting. You’re far too thin these days.”
“Okay… Can we stop the picking on Charlotte today?”
Mom laid down her fork. “Enough. Both of you. You’re ruining my appetite with this bickering. Charles, let the girl live her life.” She turned to me. “Show your father some respect. He deserves it.” She cleared her throat. “We are your parents, and given what we have experienced, we have every right to watch over your health. Are you unwell?”
“No,” I assured her. “I am perfectly healthy. I saw the doctor last month. Everything is normal,” I stressed.
“Then your father is right. You are too thin. Eat your dinner.”
“I’m fine. I wasn’t hungry at lunch.”
My father lifted the bowl of potatoes again in my direction. “And now?”
With a sigh, I accepted the potatoes, adding them to my plate. I wasn’t overly hungry, but if it got him off my back, I would eat the damn potatoes.
After dinner, I helped clear the table. It was June’s night off. I missed our housekeeper’s sunny disposition, but I would see her next time. I was loading the dishwasher when my mother spoke.
“You know your father is concerned, Lottie. He has told me how distracted you are in the office.”
“I’m fine.”
She frowned. “You aren’t yourself.”
I wanted to ask her if she knew who I was anymore. But I refrained.
I shut the door, straightened up, and met her serious, dark-brown eyes. Like my father, I had blue eyes, but I was built like my mother with the same chestnut-brown hair. Although hers might receive a little help these days from her favorite salon. I was small, with delicate features, the same way she was, and inside, we were both fighters. We simply fought things differently.
Except lately, the fight had gone out of me.
“It’s…work.”
“What about it?”
I shrugged, unsure how to say the words aloud.
“Are you not happy with the project? Perhaps your father could put you on a different one.”
I dragged in some much-needed oxygen. “I’m not sure I want any project, Mom.”
Understanding widened her eyes. “Lottie. Have you talked to your father about this?”
“I can’t. I don’t know how to. You know his expectations.”
“You need to speak with him. He would listen to you. He is your father, first.”
I wanted to ask her if she honestly believed that. It felt as if he were Charles first and my father a distant second. It had been that way for years.