Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Good.” I watched her dance into the back hall and heard her humming as she opened and closed drawers.
It felt good to do things that made Felicity smile and twirl and sing. I knew it wasn’t about the money—I had no doubt that she’d meant what she’d said about staying in an inexpensive motel and eating pizza on the street—but she deserved nice things, and I could certainly afford them.
Maybe I couldn’t make her happy forever, but I could whisk her away to Manhattan on a private jet and treat her like a princess for a couple of days. She’d always have the memory of it, and it would never tarnish.
Because that was Wade’s mistake—saying he was capable of something he wasn’t. He might blame his wife for pretending to be someone else, but he’d done it too, swearing he’d be faithful and true to one woman for the rest of his life. Making promises he’d never be able to keep.
I knew myself better than that.
Pulling out my phone, I double-checked the flight time my assistant had booked with the private jet company, and scanned my inbox for a confirmation for the hotel suite as well. Noticing I had a new voicemail message from a Manhattan area code, I listened to a velvet-voiced representative from Tiffany tell me I was all set for a private appointment with him at three p.m.
I almost laughed out loud. Felicity was going to be so mad at me, but I didn’t care.
Everything about this engagement was fake. It would be nice to have one thing that was real.
Later, when Felicity and I were curled up together, our skin still warm and slightly sweaty, our hearts still beating a little too fast, I said, “It’s your turn tonight.”
“For what?”
“The secret. I feel like it’s always me rambling on about shit. Tonight, you tell me something.”
“Hmm. What do you want to know?”
The things I really wanted to know—was I the best she ever had, was my dick the biggest she’d ever seen, had anyone ever made her come as hard as I did—weren’t really the types of things we’d been sharing, so I refrained from asking those questions. But I was curious about something she’d told me.
“You mentioned that you break up with anyone who says they love you.”
“Yes.”
“How many times has that happened?”
“Twice,” she said, drawing little spirals on my chest with one fingertip. “Once in college, and once in Chicago.”
“How long were those relationships?”
“Not that long. A few months.”
“And you didn’t feel that way about either of them?”
“Nope. I’ve never been in love. I’m very careful with my emotions.” She sounded proud of it. “I’m good at rationing them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say feelings are like a super rare or expensive ingredient. Truffles or something. You don’t just throw them in whole. You shave them, adding a tiny amount to finish off the dish. A little goes a long way.”
“Got it. So you shave your feelings?”
She laughed and slapped my chest. “You know what I mean. I give them out sparingly. And when the person I’m dating dishes them out too generously, too quickly, I go into panic mode and just want out. I told you, it’s weird.”
“No, I get it,” I told her. “That’s me at a business meeting. Or a party.”
“Yeah, but at least you can sneak out. I have to craft an exit strategy.”
“Like what?”
She sighed. “Okay, I’m not proud of this, but I told the first guy I was thinking about becoming a nun and wanted to try out celibacy. That was enough to scare him off. I told the second guy I was moving back to Michigan. But he kept coming around, so then I actually had to move.”
“Wait a minute. You moved back here to get out of a relationship?”
She started to squirm. “Not only for that reason. I’d been thinking about it for a while. But that was a good push—and it was the right decision. I’m happy I came back. And . . . I didn’t love those guys. If I had, I wouldn’t have been able to walk away so easily. Right?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve never been in love either. I’m not wired for it.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, some people are good at getting out of their heads and letting someone else have, I don’t know, unfettered access to them—all their flaws and imperfections. Revealing themselves. That’s never going to be me.”
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers still moving on my chest. “Do you think something is wrong with us? I sometimes wonder if I’m cursed or something.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I think we’re just fine. In fact, I think we’re smarter than everyone, because we know ourselves so well.”
She sat up and looked down at me. “Yes, exactly. What good does it do to stay in a relationship you know won’t work out?”