Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“You saved the Elmhurst …” I swipe away a single happy tear before interlacing my fingers with his. “You’re a saint. Really. You have no idea how much this means to me. But I don’t have the means to refurbish it … I don’t have the—”
“—I’ve set aside a trust that should generate enough in interest to cover the ongoing maintenance. I’ve also set aside an account to cover the refurbishments, current and unanticipated.”
It makes sense now why the owners didn’t send out an email. I bet Bennett asked them to keep it quiet because he wanted to be the one to tell me.
“Also, were you aware that the three floors above the theatre had been used as storage space for the past twenty years?” he asks.
“I guess? We never had any reason to go up there.”
“Honor and I toured the place last weekend, and we think it would make a wonderful place to live.”
“What …?”
“That neighborhood is in an up-and-coming area, family friendly, close to her school, plenty of parks …” he says. “She doesn’t need to grow up in a penthouse. She needs to grow up in a home. So we’re going to make it a home, and we’d be honored if you would join us in that process.”
“Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I am.” He turns to me.
“Wow.” I lean back in my warm seat, watching the gray world blur past.
“I know it’s a lot to take in at once. And I want you to know that I don’t expect an answer right away,” he says. “And regardless of what you choose, the theatre and everything that comes with it … is my gift to you.”
I think back to my conversation with Ophelia last Friday, when she called him a rich, lonely man with a Batman complex.
I also think back to what she said about how he could have any blonde, twenty-something, kid-friendly woman in the world—and yet he wants me.
We ride back to my apartment in silence, together but alone with our thoughts.
“I’ll walk you in,” he says.
“Thank you for showing me where you grew up today. I imagine it wasn’t easy for you to go back there.”
He offers a pained smile. “That’s the first time I’ve set foot on my mother’s property in years.”
“I …” my words get caught. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”
“Astaire, please. Don’t apologize. What you heard was terribly upsetting. You had every right to take some time to cool off before hearing me out.”
“You told me once that I should believe people when they show me who they are,” I say. “And I’m kicking myself because from the very beginning, you showed me who you really were. Your heart of gold was in the details. In the little things. All along. And I hate that I doubted you for one minute.”
He closes the space between us, his hand lifting to my hip. “It’s natural to second-guess things, especially when they seem too good to be true.”
“It does,” I say. “This thing we have. It’s like a dream sometimes, it’s that good.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
I lift my hand to his cheek, fingertips grazing his sharp jaw, and his mouth lowers onto mine. Warmth blooms through my body, and for the first time in nearly a week, the tight void in my chest is gone.
“I love you so much, Astaire.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “You’re it for me. There’s never going to be anyone else.”
“I love you too.” I inhale his familiar scent, dragging it into my lungs and holding it for a moment. My mouth curls at one side and my finger skims his waistband. “You want to come in for a little bit …?”
He claims my lips once more. “For a little bit, then I’m taking you back home with me. Where you belong.”
54
Bennett
“What’s she doing, Uncle Bennett?” Honor asks from the third row as George reads a paper in the driver’s seat and Astaire makes her way to Trevor’s grave. “What are all those gray things? Why are some of them bigger than the others?”
“She’s visiting a friend,” I say.
“A friend who lives in one of those gray things?”
“The friend lives in Heaven, like your mother. The gray things are …” God, I’m terrible at this. If Astaire were here, she’d know exactly what to say, but she sprang this little excursion on us at the last minute. “The gray things have their names and birthdays on them, and it’s how we remember them.”
“So her friend lives with my mom?” she asks.
I weigh my response. “Yes.”
“Do you think they know each other?”
George tuts under his breath, his eyes smiling in the rearview when he glances up.
“I imagine they do know each other by now.” I glance out the window in time to catch Astaire returning.