Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Did the doctor say anything about you having supervision? And you being alone?"
Her jaw clenches, and she doesn't reply. I can already assume exactly what the doctor said, then. She doesn't want to tell me, so I'm guessing this has something to do with her not being alone.
"Let's just go to the bookstore, please. I have a few things I need to do."
“Oh, look,” she says, her eyes lighting up as we head toward Inverness Centre. The clocks in the centre are lit up, little white lights twinkling like diamonds. “Bet they’re gorgeous at night.”
I love the way she appreciates the wee details, tiny moments in time others might overlook entirely. She’s always been like that.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” We sit in silence for long moments, neither of us speaking. Finally, I pull away, and drive to the parking garage near the bookstore. My phone lights up with a text, just as I come to a stop.
Leith: Cairstina’s been re-reading all the books. She’s put a few things together. We’ll discuss this tonight, you tell me what you find? It’s imperative we find the writer, Tate. This is no joking matter.
Me: We’ll definitely find them.
Leith: We find them and we end them.
Chapter 6
Fran
I’m so annoyed I can barely keep my temper. I don't have patience for things like illness, and never have. I'm a pretty high-energy person, and always have been. It annoys the hell out of me to be sidelined.
“Drive around back,” I tell him, pointing to the back lot where employees park.
Earlier, I was mildly afraid that he would find something at the bookstore that would tip him off that I'm the writer of the romance novels. And maybe a part of me wants him to find out. I’ve seen the darker side of Tate Cowen, and I crave it.
Now, though, I'm so focused on the instructions I got from the doctor that I don't fucking care. Let him find out. What’s he going to do about it?
Real mature.
I even let myself get kind of enamored with him for a little bit. I blame the medication. Medication does stupid fucking things to someone's head.
I write romance novels because that's how I get to write the endings I want to read. The criticism about romance I leveled at them, to the girls… well, it isn’t all cynicism.
I actually believe that romance novels aren't real life. At the very least, I believe that no one like me deserves to have a romance story.
My ex-husband proved that to me.
He said all the right things. Did all the right things. He was a looker, and he was even pretty-admittedly good in bed. He had his affairs in order and made good money. But there was something missing, and there always was.
I told myself that it was just my own mind, that having written so many romance novels I expected something like perfection from my partner. I know men aren't perfect, and no man really ever could be. I know this in my head. But I still have a romantic’s heart.
Still, romance isn't for me, and definitely not with anyone from the Cowen Clan. I wouldn’t fit in with the likes of them.
Tate seems to be mulling over his own issues, since he’s totally quiet and sort of brooding as we park our car. It’s almost as if I can feel the intensity of his thoughts, like heat waves on a hot summer day.
It’s definitely the drugs, because the more I try to pull my focus away from him, the harder it is to resist. I glance casually at his hands, wrapped around the steering wheel, strong and powerful and determined.
And I imagine them on my body. A man like Tate moves with purpose and determination… and I want a man like that.
La la la la la.
I try to mentally drown out my insane mental issues, and of course it’s futile.
“How long will you be?”
“Um, no idea? As long as I need?”
He growls. “Not good enough.”
Grump.
I barely temper the desire to roll my eyes at him and growl right fucking back. I exhale. “Ten minutes?”
“Is that a question or a statement?"
“Question. I have no idea how long I’ll be!”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
He’s silent. Brooding. Eyebrows snapped together over stormy eyes, jaw clenched as he eyes the road in front of him.
“What a riveting conversation,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
Another growl.
“Charming.” This I say louder. I’d rather take his anger than his brooding silence.
He doesn’t reply, and for some reason that makes me feel badly. I inhale and vow to behave myself. I don’t need to let his surly behavior bring out the worst in me.
We pull up to park. “Will they allow me in the back entrance?” he says, eying the back door suspiciously.
“Aye,” I say with an eye roll. “You’re my husband. Remember?”
He opens his mouth as if to protest, and then shakes his head. "Fucking mental."