Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Stunned, I stare at him.
“Seriously? Because I talked to Carolina, you’re going to blow a gasket and send me home?” The minute I’d seen his face when he’d walked out the door, I knew that’s what was on his mind.
Sending me away.
Something I expected from the start.
It’s just like it was years ago, isn’t it? Growing up means nothing.
Back then, I’d get to the point where I thought something might happen between us, and just like now, he’d put up an invisible wall.
He’d always claim I was too young and didn’t know what I was doing.
I’m not a kid now. I know what I’m doing this time.
“Don’t tell me what to do or where you’ll send me, Quinn,” I tell him point blank, shooting my coldest look.
“I’m not sending you anywhere,” he says, his voice softer. “I’m asking you to go. Stay safe. For me. For us.”
I don’t know what’s growing faster, my confusion or my hurt.
What happened back at the bar to make him act this way?
It had to be more than my worthless chat with Dibs and staying away from the table too long.
“You didn’t ask,” I whisper. “You said you want me gone.”
“Fuck, don’t you get it?” His lip curls in a snarl. “You can come back when it’s over.”
Something inside me snaps.
“When what’s over?” I don’t wait for him to answer because it doesn’t matter. “When I leave here, I won’t be coming back. That won’t be an option.”
“Tor—”
“Shut up, Quinn,” I snap, trying to hold back the tears. “Just...please, shut up.”
20
Goat Me Twisted Up (Faulkner)
There’s no denying the hard truth this time—I stepped in it.
I’d iced over when she hadn’t returned to the table while I was busy talking to Grady, filling him in on the intrusions at the not-so-deserted Maddock place. When the waitress told me the ladies’ room was empty, my heart lodged in my throat.
Tory’s right, though. I do need to shut my yap before I say more shit I’ll regret.
Once she cools off, we can talk about it. I’ll apologize for turning into a colossal prick.
I’ll convince her she can come back and that going to Chicago or wherever else she chooses is only temporary.
My throat locks up at the thought.
Temporary.
Let’s be real—there’s nothing temporary anymore about Tory Three Names.
I’ve tried fooling myself, claiming once this is over, after Pickett’s finished, everything will be fine.
Like hell it will.
She’s a dancing angel, a graceful swan in a woman’s body, and this little town can’t give her the chance she deserves. And no matter how territorial I get, what right do I have taking that from her?
How the fuck can she stay with me?
Sure, I could pack up, sell Gramps’ place, and move to be with her. There ain’t nothing truly holding me back.
Don’t have a clue how I’d put up with that rotten piece of escargot if she has to suck it up and work for Jean-Paul What’s-It for a while, but...
Fuck.
We’ve got ourselves a dilemma, and maybe that’s what triggered our spat tonight as much as my assholery over keeping her safe.
This simple small-town life won’t cut it, and neither will I, if I’m fool enough to tie her down.
We could be happy together in Dallas for a time, but there’ll come a day when she misses dancing too much, guaranteed.
Would I be better off letting her go now, rather than later? While there’s still a chance to figure shit out?
Not when she’s stuck and hates my guts. When she realizes all she’s given up to settle, and can’t ever get back.
I can’t let her do that.
Can’t let her give up her career, her dream, any more than I can let her get hurt by my imminent rematch with Goliath’s not-so-little brother. I know she doesn’t get how serious of a threat this is, and that’s also my fault.
I’ve tried to sugarcoat this fuckery for too long, desperately fighting to insulate her from fear.
The ride home is not only silent as the grave, the air in the truck is so thick it hurts to breathe.
She heads straight upstairs when we get home, and I let her.
I’d better let her sleep on it.
That old tip about going to bed angry ain’t always true. Sometimes, a person needs their beauty sleep so they can wake up fresh, calm, their sanity restored.
Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk.
I head to the kitchen to grab a beer. My stomach sinks as I open the fridge and see the full shelves. Yes, there’s beer, plenty of it, but there are also containers of milk and eggs, fruits and vegetables, meat and poultry.
Turning, I close the door with a grunt.
It doesn’t help my pitiful state right now, knowing how she’s changed my life.
The rest of the house is just as hard to look at with signs of her everywhere. Harsh, grating proof of just how deep I’ve let her into my life this summer.