Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Only I’m greeted with Grant in a navy suit, bearing a bouquet of two dozen ice-pink roses wrapped in rose gold paper and tied with a lace ribbon.
“Surprise, babe.” He goes in for a kiss, his hand parking on my hip as he breathes me in and tastes my lips. “Missed you.”
“You didn’t have to do all of this …” I take the extensive bouquet and leave my bag by the door. “I thought we weren’t getting together until tomorrow?”
“I couldn’t wait another day.” He leads me into the living room, where two massage tables are draped in linens and two female masseuses greet us with smiles. Handing me a robe, he says, “Go get changed, babe. After this, I’m having your favorite dinner from Hollow Tree delivered, then I thought we could catch that indie flick you’ve been wanting to see.”
I have to hand it to him—Grant is going to make someone an amazing husband someday. An impressive amount of thought and foresight goes into his every gesture.
I slip away to my bathroom, freshen up, and change into a robe.
But in the hour that follows, I’m silently grateful I don’t have to look into the eyes of the man whose heart I’m about to obliterate.
16
Cainan
Her name is Brie White.
All day, I’ve been repeating those two words in my head on a loop. Like a mantra.
So much fucking white …
When I woke up in the hospital, everything around me was white.
It’s a coincidence, I’m sure. White is a common last name. It’s even more common as a color, particularly where hospitals are concerned.
I lock my office Friday afternoon and pass Paloma on my way out. “I’m taking the rest of the day.”
I’m too wound up to get anything done.
I need air. I need a walk. I need a drink. Hell, maybe even a fucking cigarette with a side of Ativan—anything to calm myself so I can make sense of this.
Grant said he met her at the hospital, that she was the one who saw my accident and called 9-1-1. Not only that, but she followed the ambulance and stayed in the waiting room … which was where she met him.
But according to Brie, we met before that fateful night.
I saw her first. I wanted her first. I put my sights on her first—even if I don’t recall any of it. And now, none of that matters.
No one ever said life was going to be fair.
But no one ever said it was going to be fifty shades of fucked up.
17
Brie
Grant’s side of the bed is empty Saturday morning. The scent of coffee wafts from the kitchen into my room via the half-opened doorway. But the house is silent. He isn’t making breakfast. He isn’t watching the news in the living room. He isn’t clicking away on his laptop.
I drag myself out of bed, freshen up, and find him seated at the kitchen table, facing the sliding glass door to the back patio.
He’s still, unmoving save for the slow rise and fall of his shoulders.
He wanted to make love last night, but I rebuffed him. I told him I was tired. He kissed me and rolled over, sleeping soundly in a matter of minutes while the wheels in my head spun with a thousand guilt-laden thoughts.
Perhaps he feels me pulling away? Perhaps he knows what’s in the cards for us.
I have to end it.
It’s not right to drag it out, to delay the inevitable. Originally, I’d planned to go with him to Cainan’s party later this week since the tickets were already purchased, but I don’t want to feel like a fraud, playing the part of the doting fiancée when really I’m two seconds from calling the whole thing off the instant we’re back on desert ground.
“Hey.” I shuffle to the coffee maker and pour myself a mug. “You okay over there?”
It’s not like him to be so sullen, so paralyzed.
Finally, he moves, his head turning to the side. “Hey.”
I take the seat next to his and clear my throat. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I wrap my twitching fingers around the warm ceramic. I’ve always hated confrontation, hating hurting people.
Dragging in a long breath, he turns from the glass door and faces me. It’s then that I catch the dampness in his dark eyes and the thick tear sliding down his cheek.
“My dad died this morning,” he says.
Grant buries his head in his hands, shoulders jerking with each silent sob.
“Oh my God.” I go to him.
I wrap him in my arms.
He may not be the man I want to marry, but he still means something to me.
And I’m no stranger to loss.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper as I hold him.
“Had a heart attack in his sleep … I … I just talked to him two days ago … he and Mom were getting ready to go on a cruise in the Bahamas … he sounded great … he …” Grant’s words trail into nothing.