Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“How can you say that, Loch? We just met.”
Exactly. She understands I spoke in the moment. “I don’t want to see you sad.” The truth.
“Why?” Why?
Her eyes water, doing exactly what I hoped to avoid. I work in corporate law because I don’t have the skill set to deal with raw emotions. She needs someone in her corner, someone on her team. Am I ready to be that for her? To commit to see her story through?
A tear falls as she looks at me. “Got any advice for me, counselor? I can’t pay you now but send me a bill, and I’ll add it to the pile,” she says, trying so hard to sound like she’s not broken, but I hear the crack in her voice.
“I never charge the people who are important to me.”
A smile escapes her sadness, and she sweeps strands of loose hair in with the others over her shoulder. “Oh dear, Mr. Westcott, did you just admit I might be important to you?”
Despite the teasing in her tone, I scrub a hand over my face, my own grin cracking through the conversation. “Eh, we all have our weaknesses.”
“I’m glad we finally found one of yours.”
She’s most definitely mine.
8
Tuesday
Loch is so much more than he lets on.
Savoring the full meaning of his words, they’ve penetrated my heart, and all I can do is stare at him in disbelief. He tried to fool me, but he didn’t succeed. The man behind the attorney has a heart of gold.
But I’m starting to realize he wants people to think emotions have no place in his life. That benefits him at work, but in his personal life, it makes him vulnerable to the prosecution, a.k.a. me. That’s why he’s left me in the cold absence of the warmth of his gaze. He’s been looking everywhere but at me since his confession, probably thinking it makes him weak. It doesn’t. I see his strength more than ever.
I reach across the table and lay my palm flat beside his silverware. “Loch?” His eyes slide back to mine, the laughter we shared dying down. “I appreciate you opening up to me, especially since I realize that’s not a place of comfort for you.”
“You appreciate it, but I shouldn’t have said anything at all. It’s . . .” He looks at my hand and raises his from his lap, but then he stops and lowers back down. “It’s not something I usually offer up easily.”
“That’s why it means so much to me.” I’m careful as I paddle through his choppy waters of emotions. “I took it as intended. You’re under no obligation to me.” My heart starts racing and I look away, almost wishing I had a story or distraction to detour us back on track. With nothing but darkness in place of memories, I slide my gaze back to him and offer him one of my secrets instead. “I don’t know how old I am.” A humorless laugh escapes without permission. “How crazy is that?” I ask with a half-hearted eye roll.
He's angled in his chair, his build too large for the wooden frame. “I’m sorry.”
“Pfft. Don’t be.” I reach over and take his glass. I know I shouldn’t drink but feeling like this has to be worse than any side effects from the concussion. “What is it?”
“Bourbon.”
“Wonder if I like it.” I take a sip, letting the flames of alcohol scorch my throat. I scrunch my face when my chest can’t take it and end up coughing and scrambling for water to douse the fire. I take a long pull of the cool water, reveling in the relief it brings. Inhaling through my nose, I slowly exhale a tinged breath.
The crack of a smile splits his face, and he says, “I don’t think you like bourbon.”
I rub my throat as if I can soothe it. “I don’t know why you do.”
“Sometimes the burn is worth the respite.”
“And here I thought the relief came after with the water.”
He chuckles. “It’s both.”
After taking another sip of water, I ask, “What in your life deserves that kind of respite?”
“Everything.”
The last thing he’d want is for me to feel bad or sorry for him. Doesn’t he have it all?
Money.
Looks.
A successful career.
A private car and driver.
I’m sure some fancy apartment on 5th Avenue.
But the sorrow in his eyes has me reevaluating my stance. Maybe he’s lost communication with the most important part of life—his heart. I ask, “How can I—”
“Here’s your soup and the salads,” the server says with perfectly bad timing as I was about to see if Loch would open up even more to me. He sets the dishes down on the table, bursting the bubble Loch and I shared.
I move out of his way as he fills our table and refills our glasses. I can feel the weight of Loch’s eyes fixed on mine, but I don’t look up. I don’t even breathe, much less move. I wait until we’re alone again, then bravely drag my eyes from the vegetable soup in front of me to meet his searing gaze.