Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Having realized that Bridgette wasn’t trotting along after him, Devin pops his head back into the dining room. “Come on, she’s gonna leave us if we don’t get out there.”
It’s obvious where his loyalties lie, and Bridgette looks torn for a split second but then follows Devin.
Samantha sighs to herself, “Did what I could.” When she turns around, her eyes jump all over the table, and having been watching her try to save Bridgette, I follow her gaze.
Everyone’s looking at her.
She clears her throat. “Yeah, well . . . I think we did a lot of good work here tonight. Got a lot of what’s been weighing us down out into the open, which is always uncomfortable. But remember, uncomfortable is where growth happens, so this was progress.”
Samantha’s dropped into her professional therapist voice as if this whole dinner debacle was nothing more than a therapy session.
I should be mortified. Or embarrassed? Or something? I’m certain I’m expected to feel some sort of shame for this whole thing, given the angry glare my father’s sending my way. But when I search my gut, all I find is satisfaction. She’s right, this was a long time coming.
Okay, and a little humor because did Dad really not see the nearly literal steam coming out of Aunt Vivian’s ears? That’s fucking hilarious. But if I laugh, I’m going to be in so much trouble.
Not that I care, but I don’t have time for it. Not now when I want to twirl Samantha around and whoop in delight, because I was right. This was our best family dinner ever.
“I think we should go,” I say straight-faced. My jaw’s tight as I fight to stay stoic.
“That might be best,” Mom says, but then, ever the polite hostess, she adds, “Lovely to see you again, Samantha.”
CHAPTER 23
SAMANTHA
Chance hasn’t said a word since we left. After silently helping me in the car, we drove away from the estate, and I deduced about twenty minutes ago that he’s heading to my apartment.
All in complete silence.
I understand why he’s mad. That was a pretty dramatic and traumatic family dinner, with me at the center for so much of it. I didn’t go in with the intention of psychoanalyzing his aunt and cousin, but it was so over-the-top and obvious. I mean, how did someone not intervene before tonight?
As for how I talked to Chuck, and mentioned only being in it for the dick? It was a knee-jerk reaction to their very loud assumption that any female who shows up with one of their boys must be out for the Benjamins. I should’ve been more polite and polished, but I am who I am, and bowing up to that sort of mentality is my gut response.
Chance had seemed fine after that . . . and when I said it to Kyle . . . and when I said it to Vivian, but now? I glance over at him to find his eyes locked on the road, jaw set like stone, and hands gripping the steering wheel so tight they’re turning white.
Yeah, somewhere between there and now, he’s put together that I’m not the girl you take home.
Well. It was good while it lasted.
Real fucking good.
This is why I don’t do relationships, family meet and greets, and promises of forever. I fuck them up. But I'm going to miss Chance, and not only the mind-blowing sex.
I’m going to miss snuggling up on the couch while we both stare at our laptops, him working and me studying, simply existing together. I’m going to miss the way his whole face lights up and his shoulders relax when he sees me, like I make him happy. I’m going to miss the way he acts shocked when I say something scandalous but then grins and compliments the way my brain works. I’m going to miss . . .
Chance Harrington.
I cut my eyes the other way, staring out the window. On the way here, the stars twinkling had seemed like little sparklers cheering us on for a great night. Now, they feel like the last tiny flame of burned-out sparklers—pretty and flashy, but only for a short time, and then you’re left holding ashes and hot, pointy sticks.
When Chance pulls up to the curb in front of my building, I say, “I’m sorry.”
He holds up a hand, nearly putting his palm in my face. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
Well, I tried.
I knew this thing had an expiration date. I’m not Chance’s type, and to be honest, he’s not mine. But for a minute, I thought maybe there was a chance.
When he opens my door and helps me out, I expect him to ditch me there on the sidewalk and peel away to leave me faster. But Chance is more of a gentleman than that, so he walks stiffly to the building, holds the door open for me, and follows me inside.