Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“Rough night?”
Peering around the shelf, I landed on a figure cloaked in moonlight. He stretched out on a chaise placed beside a massive wrought iron window. Dangling from his long, tapered fingers was a decanter of golden liquid.
“Yes, actually.”
“So rough you fled the joyous festivities downstairs? Shame.”
Moving closer, a long face, neatly trimmed beard, and untamable curls unveiled in the soft glow. Irrational anger filled me. Another sinfully handsome rich prince appeared just in time to mock me. If these fuckers were so much better than everyone else, why couldn’t they get it up without putting us down?
“Whatever turned your night sour,” he said, “I bet all the priceless first editions in this library that it doesn’t top mine.”
My nails pierced my palm. “You don’t want to make that bet. Trust me.”
“You think? Pull up a seat.” The stranger dropped his head against the window, gazing up at the ceiling. “I was told my genes are a ticking time bomb. There’s a one in four chance I could pass a terrible illness on to my children, so I made what I still believe is the right decision to get a vasectomy.”
I sat down, accepting the space he made for me.
“I talked to my fiancée about it. I told her what I was going to do. She disagreed with me. Said seventy-five percent were good odds, and I had to have faith.” He shifted—eyes the color of his drink reflecting me. “Would you risk those odds? A twenty-five percent chance your kid would die slowly and painfully.”
“No,” I murmured. “I wouldn’t.”
“Neither could I, so I went through with it. Catalina threw my engagement ring at my head a day after I had the procedure. She told my parents an hour after that.”
“Your parents? Why would she do that? You should’ve decided when you told them.”
“See, that’s what I said.” He swept out the bottle, sloshing the contents over the rim. It was just hitting me he was drunk. “Catalina’s response was to call me a selfish ass. My mother’s wasn’t too far off. My parents refuse to understand why I won’t roll the dice. Honestly, they refuse to believe there’s anything wrong with me at all,” he said. “Nothing but healthy babies up and down my family tree. The first, second, and third doctor I went to all misdiagnosed me. They told me to reverse the procedure, get Catalina back, and work on providing them a grandson, or they’ll disown me.”
My jaw unhinged. Okay, maybe this guy does have real problems. “You’re shitting me. They threatened to kick you out of the family if you don’t have kids? What kind of sixteenth-century nightmare are we in?”
He snorted. “This is a twenty-first-century nightmare, except no one told my folks you’re supposed to wake up from those and it’s all over. This morning, they dissolved my trust fund, wrote me out of the will, threw me out of their house and said not to come back until I was ready to ‘grow up and accept my responsibilities as their eldest son.’”
I made strangled noises trying to say something. Jack pushed me into an arranged marriage, but all he held over my head was tuition to a school we all hated. He’d never abandon or kick me out of the family—for my mom’s sake if nothing else.
“I’m sorry. You had a heartbreaking decision to make. You were just trying to do the right thing.”
“Alright.” He closed my hand around the bottle. “Your turn.”
It took me a second to realize what he was talking about. I had to share what made my night suck for all the first editions. Looking from him to the alcohol, I clocked the stranger as twenty-six—possibly twenty-seven. And too sloshed to notice I was a few years short of the drinking age.
I chanced a sip. Then another. Then five gulps. He shared an incredibly personal tragedy with me. If I was reciprocating, I needed what turned out to be fine scotch.
“You want my story? Here it is: four years ago, I was sent to a small Catholic boarding school in France. It was hard to keep in touch with my sister thanks to the lack of Wi-Fi, no cell phones, and internet usage restricted to the computer lab with a sister standing over my shoulder, watching me. Still, my sister and I didn’t let that get in our way. We talked and video-chatted every week.
“But last year... she was different. She missed calls, and when we did link up, she didn’t say much. Our two-hour-long conversations barely cracked twenty minutes. I knew something was wrong,” I rasped. “But she wouldn’t tell me.
“Two weeks before graduation, my sister jumped off Zibia Bridge and drowned.”
His cloudy pools cleared. My friend was sobering up quickly.
“Mom collapsed outside the coroner’s office. She couldn’t go in, so an hour and a half after my plane touched down, I was driven to the coroner to identify my big sister’s body.”