Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Fine,” I acquiesced. “You have an hour, then she’s mine. All mine. Understood?”
She muttered something about selfish, impatient bastards, and dragged Katharine off. I watched them go, feeling a little off-kilter myself.
Adrian caught my eye and winked. I returned his with one of my own and went back to the bar.
Scotch was the answer.
I couldn’t drive. I was smart enough to know that. Katharine had taken a cab, so Graham insisted on sending us home in his car, and I didn’t argue. I wasn’t drunk, but I was well on my way.
I’d had far too much scotch. It helped soothe the burn I felt every time I heard Katharine laugh. Saw her smile. Watched as she made—yet another—instant friend.
I didn’t understand why I cared, or why it bothered me. She was charming people. If they liked her, they would give me a chance because no one would believe someone that good and kind could be in love with the bastard my reputation upheld.
Except it did.
All the way home in the car, she was quiet, yet watchful. She made sure I got out of the car without trouble, and wrapped her arm around my waist. When we got inside, she helped me off with my jacket, looking concerned.
“You barely touched anything at the party, Richard. Let me make you a bite to eat.”
“No, I’m fine. I ate a couple of your cookies.”
“That’s not a meal—or even a snack. I’ll make you a sandwich and some coffee. You’ll feel better.”
I waved my hand. “Stop acting as though you care how I feel, or what I need.” I walked over to the bar and grabbed the scotch. “I said I’m fine. I’ll have another drink.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve had enough. You need to eat something.” She took the bottle from my hand and started to walk toward the kitchen.
Without thinking, I grabbed her arm, spinning her around. “You don’t make decisions for me. If I want to drink, I’ll drink.”
She gasped and released the bottle I was reaching for, shaking her head. “Why are you drinking this much, Richard? You should be pleased! You fooled the Gavins, you got the job, and you screwed over David! Why are you acting like someone pissed on your cornflakes?”
It exploded. Everything I’d been feeling all evening. The annoyance at how easily they accepted her into their family. The frustration that I was the one on the outside. The strange way I reacted when she was close—as if I almost liked it.
I shouldn’t like it. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like her.
“Tell me, Katharine, what do you get out of this? Do you have some twisted sense of martyrdom?”
She stared at me, her eyes wide, the blue orbs glistening in the dim light.
“Do you have some sick sense of thinking you’re better than me? You put up with my shit for a year, and without barely blinking, you agreed to this masquerade.” I stepped closer, my rage boiling to the surface. “You think your sacrifice is going to make me a better man or some sort of shit?” I spat. “You think I’m somehow going to magically fall in love with you and life will be a bed of fucking roses?” I grabbed her arm, shaking her with more force than I knew I should. “Is that what you think?”
Her head shook furiously.
“Then, why did you agree? Why are you doing this for me?”
She remained silent, her teeth chewing away at her cheek so hard I thought she’d draw blood. With a curse, I pushed her away. “Get out of my goddamn sight.”
I blindly grabbed the bottle of scotch, pouring a generous shot into my glass. I threw back the liquor, the burn of it warming my throat and chest. I refilled it and stepped toward the window, gazing out into the dark of Victoria, the lights of the city shining bright in the inky blackness.
Behind me, Katharine hadn’t moved. I was about to tell her to leave again, when she spoke.
“Penny Johnson isn’t my real aunt. I simply call her that so I don’t have to explain our relationship all the time. When I was twelve, my parents were killed in a car crash. I had no other family, so I ended up in the foster system.”
That news surprised me, although I remained quiet. I knew her parents had died, but she had never mentioned foster care.
“Twelve-year-old girls aren’t exactly on the most desired list to be adopted or even fostered, and I went through a few places. The last one wasn’t, ah, very nice.”
Something in her voice made me turn around. She was standing where I left her, her head down, hair covering her face so I couldn’t see anything.
“I ran away. I was on the streets for a while and one day I met Penny Johnson. She was an older woman, very kind, and she took me home, cleaned me up, and for some reason, decided I was going to stay with her. She petitioned the province to become my foster parent. She was everything to me—mother, father, friend, teacher. She didn’t have much, but what she had, we made the best of it. I got a paper route, we’d collect bottles and cans—things to help make money stretch a little more. She had a way of making every job we did like a game, so it didn’t seem as hard. She loved to paint and we’d spend hours in the little room she had set up—she’d paint and I’d read. It was a peaceful life, and for the first time since my parents died, I felt safe—and loved.”