Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
But I will.
The words aren’t spoken out loud, but they’re there as if he said them.
I wonder what all of it means, my overactive imagination building a story in my mind about Ashley’s background using the information I have: his sophisticated accent. The house he lived in alone, with the granite countertops and spare bedroom—with its own bathroom.
The brand new truck.
The boarding schools.
The talk of inheritances and exclusive clubs where you need memberships.
Out of my wheelhouse.
I knew girls growing up who lived like that, blue-blooded Southern belles whose families had been in the area for generations. Snotty, stuck-up girls who were members of country clubs and looked down their noses at people.
Noses they had surgically altered. Faces they had fixed, personalities they could not.
Not a world I want to be trapped in.
“Is that why you moved here?” I suddenly blurt out.
“Is what why I moved here? Annabelle’s?”
I giggle. “No. Did you move to the States to get away from your responsibilities? The people?”
His nod is slow. “Yes, I think so.” He starts up again, plucking at the mangled napkin he’s already picked apart and destroyed. “Not all of it’s bad—it just gets tiresome. I don’t want to do lunches and garden parties and fucking charity events the rest of my life. That’s not who I am.”
But that’s what I was born into.
“But you’re going to work for your dad?”
He nods again. “I happen to love numbers and finance, so I think it will be a good fit. And if it’s not…” His shoulders rise, blasé. “I used to go to the office with him sometimes if I was home on holiday, and I always loved it. He’d set me up with my own desk and have me calculate figures, and clients would come in to talk stocks.” Ashley stops talking. “What about you? What’s your family like?”
“My parents are your average Americans. They both work full-time, long hours. Yard work on the weekends. I grew up in a little house, no room for a dog, but it’s a cute place.” I think about how all this may sound to him, this description of my parents and upbringing. “No fancy clubs or charity events, if you don’t count the fundraisers at school so the soccer team could get new uniforms.”
“You play football?”
“I did for a bit—that’s how we discovered how fast I was. Then when I started getting scouted for track and field, I had to decide what I wanted to focus on—no one wanted me getting hurt on the soccer field, and track was the safest choice for a scholarship.”
“Was it? Couldn’t you have gotten good enough at football to get a better scholarship for that?”
“Maybe? I didn’t love it though. The rules stressed me out. I couldn’t remember half of what they were, where I was supposed to be on the field, who went where during a goal kick.”
“Makes sense.”
“Anyway, my parents didn’t have any money set aside for me. I did what I had to do, and soccer confused me, so I quit.” I drink from the water glass the bartender set down earlier. “I love playing a sport—I get to travel.”
“And see the inside of hotel rooms?”
“Mostly.” I can’t help laughing.
He’s right; we travel, but it’s not like we get to play tourist. Track and field isn’t exactly a sport that garners any type of fanfare—no one actually gives a shit about it except the athletes and coaches.
It brings in almost no money.
We have almost no spectators.
It’s a sport that comes and goes with little or no notice.
Similar to rugby, I imagine—such an obscure sport to play.
“How long have you played rugby?”
Ashley makes a humming sound deep in his throat. “Since I was in secondary school. Rugby and lacrosse.” He grins, flashing the gap. “How predictably British.”
“It’s fascinating. I love it.” I wink at him and wish I could take it back, because his eyes widen and he looks away—as if he’s not sure what to make of my flirty little gesture.
That makes two of us…
It’s awkward for a bit as I rack my brain for something else to say, or talk about, or ask him.
“Do you have any pets?”
There. That’s a good one.
“Mum had a few yippy dogs for a time. They’re dead though.”
Um. Okayyy.
“I didn’t have to put up with them since I was at school, although one of them—Buttercup, a Pomeranian—hated me with a passion. Bit me twice, the lil’ fucker.”
I giggle. “Say Buttercup one more time.”
His brows furrow. “That’s enough out of you, missy.”
I think he’s teasing me back, but it’s hard to tell; he still looks tough. Rough around the edges with the beard stubble and black shirt and inked-up arms.
I cannot believe I walked up to this guy those weeks ago and had the nerve to ask him on a date.
The audacity!