Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“Thank you, but I’ll handle it,” Ethan says, as if he wants a return to privacy.
I’m struck by his politeness, which doesn’t fully read like an arrogant asshole who’s uncaring of other people. It certainly doesn’t suggest he’s not a jerk, though. I’ve known a few men who could be as polite as a prince until they were angry or irritated. They’re the guys my father warns me about, and he’s usually not wrong.
He warned me about Ethan.
“Who lied to you?” Ethan asks, filling my glass.
I blink him into view and quickly wave off his pour. “That’s plenty. I don’t want to waste your expensive whiskey. Or is it Scotch?”
“Scotch whiskey,” he says, “though I don’t think that detail matters as long as you like it.”
I reach for my glass and sip again, savoring the smoky flavor. “Hmm…I do. I’m surprised. I guess it’s one of those things money makes better.”
“There are a lot of things that money makes better,” he says, “but not everything.”
It’s an interesting comment. “Like what?”
“Most relationships. If I could have walked up to you and had you be oblivious to my money, I’d have preferred it that way.”
It’s an unexpected confession, one that doesn’t read like something a man seeking a one-night stand would say, and surely, that’s what is going on between us. I caution myself about reading too much into this. In fact, sometimes a one-night stand, a stranger, is someone you can say things to that you’d never confess to a real acquaintance, someone you plan to see over and over.
“If I cared about your money or your position, I’d be asking you to let me run Moore’s entire design department. Instead, you’ve made me think about where I really want to be and how I go about achieving my goals. Also, for the record, you’re the kind of man my father warns me about.” Quite literally, the man, I add silently.
His expression is indecipherable. “Define the kind of man.”
“Wealthy. Good-looking. Powerful. Arrogant.”
He laughs. “You think I’m arrogant?”
“Aren’t you?” I challenge.
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes alight with amusement. “At times.”
I suddenly like him more for his candor and willingness to laugh at the topic of himself.
“And good-looking,” he adds.
“Proof of arrogance,” I say, and now I’m laughing.
“I repeated your words. I didn’t say them myself.”
I sip my whiskey, and I can feel its seductive tug as surely as I feel his. Our laughter fades, and we’re staring at each other. The mood fades from light to serious, a beat of intensity between us. “Who burned you?” I ask, wondering about the woman who wanted his money. The one who hurt him, because it feels right.
“No one in the last ten years,” he replies. “I’m not that young or foolish anymore.Young and foolish isn’t just about your wallet size. We all have to go there to live better.”
He refills his glass and then sits back, studying me. “Who lied to you?”
I blanch. “What?” And I’m not even sure why my heart is racing. Maybe because I’m sort of lying to him by way of silent omission.
“You said you don’t like fake people. The entire act of being ‘fake’ is a lie.”
I consider his words thoughtfully and conclude that he’s both right and wrong. “That’s true,” I say, “but there are times when people fake things and even tell lies, with good intentions.”
“Such as?”
I sip from my glass. “When you tell someone you’re seeing someone else when you’re not interested and you just don’t want to hurt their feelings. When a mom and dad play Santa Claus. When a parent tells you it’s going to be okay when it will never be okay again.” I swallow hard, cursing my whiskey-induced loose lips.
My eyes fall to the table, and I’m instantly flashing back to the ER after my mother’s accident. I was hysterical. My father had grabbed my arms, looked me in the eye, and said, “She’ll be okay. It’s not her time.”
“Zoey,” Ethan says softly, and for a moment, just a moment, I think he’s talking about my mother, as if he knew her, or of her, and my gaze lifts to his.
And then comes his confession.
“My mother had a heart attack when I was ten,” he says. “My father told me she’d survive because he wanted it to be true. He was wrong.”
I suck in a breath before I say, “That wasn’t on your wiki page.”
“I made sure it wasn’t. It’s private.”
“And you told me?”
“Yes. I told you.”
It’s an answer that says very little, but one thing I know is me and my inability to handle whiskey. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “This is a tough subject all the way around. It was only five years ago for me. A drunk driver. It’s still a little raw. Okay, a lot raw.”
“You were close. I already figured that out.”