Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Okay, how did you get rich then? We could talk about that.”
Grudging amusement looks good on this man. Never mind. Every single emotion, including no emotion at all, looks good on him. “That would involve talking about my parents.”
“It’s your call.” I twist my hair into a bun and let it fall. Then, I gather it up and start braiding it. It’s something I do when I need something to do with my hands. “We can just sit here and listen to the cats eat.” We have a good solid two minutes left before they come wanting pets or decide that we’re boring and go to walk the fields and roads and wherever other places they’re cat bosses of.
Smack, chomp. Smack, chomp.
“Aright,” he caves. I’m not buying his scowl. Underneath that is relief. Doesn’t anyone ask him about his life? Doesn’t anyone care enough to see the real person underneath? Maybe he’s scary to everyone else. I can see how he’d come across that way and how people would call him heartless. Just because he has a firm touch, I wouldn’t say he’s heartless.
Firm. Touch.
Jesus, look at me go off here, lighting up like a light bulb on top of this haybale. My lady bits are practically singing. I try not to look at Beau after having that thought, but I do, and of course, I imagine him without that suit on, giving a proper roll in some very legit hay right here in the barn. I also imagine myself licking his hard, lean body. He’d have a firm touch, alright. He’d please me exactly the way I wanted him to, and after, neither of us would apologize. It would just be good. We’d pick hay out of each other’s hair and laugh.
No. Don’t you even go there. Just no.
He swipes a hand over his face and leans forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “My mom only found my birth parents because I got sick when I was younger. I was twelve years old and healthy…until I wasn’t. No one knew what the hell was wrong with me. They thought I was dying. I’m not sure who she convinced, but she made someone see it was literally a matter of life or death that she gets my family’s medical records. She ended up finding out that my biological father was a diabetic. The doctors would have figured it out sooner or later, but I’d lost so much weight that I looked like a skeleton. Anyway, now I think they do more efficient tests, but my parents didn’t have a lot of money. They did what they could. My mom fought so hard for me. She was the one who taught me how to give myself my shots, figured out my diet, and got my sugar straightened out so I wasn’t always high or low, crashing or exhausted. She put so much effort into caring for me. My dad, too, but it was mostly my mom because he was working two jobs since she had to take off from hers when I got sick. I wasn’t even their kid, and they did so, so much for me.”
That takes me aback. He’s back on the expressionless route again, but I know he’s hurting. He has to be. I feel bad for bringing this up, but maybe it was the right thing because he’s here talking about it, and he wouldn’t be doing that if he wasn’t completely unwilling. I didn’t threaten or cajole. I just put it out there and waited. If he told me to go to hell or asked me about hay or cats or the farm, I would have talked about any one of those things instead.
“They adopted you. You were their child,” I insist softly.
“They were the kind of people who thought so, yeah,” he huffs, but that sarcastic sound has more to do with what’s coming. “And then, I did basically nothing for them when they got sick. All I could do was watch them die. I didn’t have the money to get them the care they needed. My dad’s insurance only covered a portion of the drugs he needed when he got cancer. Ever watch someone die from cancer? It’s terrible. It came fast for him. Four months. He didn’t have to suffer for years.”
“Jesus. I’m so…” I leave it hanging because saying sorry never makes anything better, and I don’t want to be so token. “I’m so sad that you had to go through that. That your dad suffered through it, and he passed.” What does he care if I’m sad? What is that going to do for him?
He turns to the wall and looks at a shovel with absolute disinterest. He’s not a robot right now, but his voice is so bland. It doesn’t fool me. This guy denies himself cookies, but I could see how much he wanted one. I’m not sure what kind of life he lives now, but his past hurt him, and he’s out here talking to a stranger about it instead of someone who could be there for him, caring for him.