Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
I tried demanding the full story once and he practically ran away.
“It’s not as simple as that,” I mutter to myself on my long drive home, alone in my car with nothing but the blasting radio for company.
As to the rest of what Becky said… it’s true. I should move on. It’s what I’ve been trying to do this whole time. Not to mention, I promised my shrink I would.
But every time I decide to, I’m reminded of the way he looked at me that last time, in his apartment. The desperation with which he kissed me. It was so palpable, I swear I could taste it. A combination of tears and sweat, heartbreak and yearning.
I still need to stop thinking about him.
I pull onto my street, only to notice an expensive-looking car parked in my usual spot, the top rolled down, which is unusual considering it looks like rain. There’s no one inside, but I curse at the car anyway, rolling past it and hunting for a different spot. It takes me fifteen minutes to find one, and by the time I do, it’s started to drizzle. Wrapping my arms over my head, for lack of a better option since I only have my thin jacket on, I jog for the cover of my front doorstep.
I make it to the door, keys jangling in my hand, shivering from head to toe, and jam my keys into the lock. That’s when the back of my neck starts to tingle, some sixth sense alerting me. It feels like somebody’s watching me.
I turn around, and sure enough, there’s a hazy figure making its way up the steps, no umbrella either. For a moment, I can’t see through the haze. Then the figure reaches me, just steps from my door, and I blink, frozen in place.
It’s Lark. His hair is soaked and sticking to his head, and his eyes look even redder than they did in the studio a couple days ago, when I saw Sheryl slap him. “Cassidy,” he says, and to my surprise, his voice sounds steady. Even. It’s completely at odds with the fire in his eyes, the war he’s clearly struggling to keep from showing on his face.
“Lark.” I glance past him, and realize the expensive car I saw earlier must be his, although it’s not the same car he’s picked me up in before. I wouldn’t put it past him to own several expensive cars though, just for the fun of it. The top is still down. I nod toward it. “Your car’s getting wet.”
He shrugs. “I’ll have it cleaned.”
Now I really stare at him. I know he’s wealthy, but he’s never struck me as the wasteful type before. He’s always been so careful with his possessions, so exact about having everything the way he likes it—in his apartment, at work… in love.
I force that thought away. I have no idea what Lark is like in love. I only know what he’s like in lust, and in lust, he’s complicated enough. “What are you doing here?” I ask. I’m proud that my voice holds even, too. Two can play at his game. The pretend we don’t care game. Pretend it isn’t killing both of us to be standing this close to one another, and yet to remain apart.
There’s a long pause. I hold my breath, afraid of what’s coming next. Afraid he’ll make an offer I don’t have the strength to refuse. But then he says, “My tie. I left it here a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, I…” It’s in my purse right now. I haven’t taken it out. Not since the day I went over to his house to return it. But my hands freeze. I don’t want to admit I’ve been carrying it around. That makes me seem like some kind of desperate weirdo.
Even if I am a desperate weirdo, I don’t want him to know it.
“It’s inside,” I say, jingling my keys. “I’ll get it for you.”
He nods, and makes no move to follow me as I push open the door. But the sight of him standing on my doorstep, his hair still dripping, his feet leaving puddles on the mat, is too sad to ignore.
“You can come in,” I tell him.
He’s careful to keep his distance from me, only stepping far enough across the threshold so that he can ease the door closed behind himself. He doesn’t come any closer to me.
I wonder if he’s battling the same worries. The fear that if we get any nearer to one another, we’ll combust. Or at the very least, do something we regret.
“It’s in the bedroom,” I say, unable to drag my gaze from his. “I’ll just…” I gesture over my shoulder with a thumb, and then beeline into the bedroom, easing the door closed just far enough so that he won’t be able to tell I’m rooting through the very purse I had over my shoulder for it.