Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
He props his hip against my desk then, watching me for a beat or two. “Not sure people would want me here.”
His frank, matter-of-fact and truthful reply makes me even achier as I say, “This is the first time you’ve been here since that night, isn’t it? You didn’t even come for your… dad’s funeral.”
His expression shuts down now.
The beautiful, black and blue lines of his face close up like a drawbridge, and I have no hope of ever breaching his walls.
“I didn’t,” he says in a flat voice.
“Why not?”
“Didn’t want to.”
“He was your father.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you couldn’t… put aside your differences for one day and be there for him? When he died.”
“No,” he replies.
“Why do you hate your dad?” I ask finally, point blank.
Because I need to know.
Because there are so many things I need to know about him now.
So many things that I don’t understand.
Things that I’ve seen; things that he’s put me through in the past. And then there are the things he’s doing right now.
How do I reconcile them?
How do I reconcile him going from being my ex-boyfriend’s asshole best friend to this guy who stands only a few feet away from me. Who burns with guilt and regret. Who saved me the other night. Who wants to protect me. Who gifted me a freaking library in the palm of my hands and knows more about St. Mary’s than my own parents do.
“He was a good dad, wasn’t he?” I ask him when all he does is remain silent. “He was a good man. A good employer, a kind employer. He didn’t press charges against me when I… He could’ve though. But he didn’t. He didn’t fire my parents. We owe him a lot, your dad. Lots of people owe him. And when you didn’t even show up for the funeral, they all talked. They’ve all been talking for years. They’ve been…”
It’s not new information. None of what I’ve said is new or a mystery in any way.
But I want him to say something.
I want him to give me something new.
I want him to tell me that all those people are wrong.
Oh God, that’s what I want, isn’t it?
I want him to tell me that all those rumors, whatever people say and have always said is wrong. That maybe there’s a reason for it. A big, giant reason as to why he is the way he is, apart from him just being an ungrateful asshole.
I used to wonder about this too, way back when. But then he taught me that there was nothing to wonder about.
And finally he does say something, but not what I want him to. “Well, if people are saying it, I’m sure they’re right.”
“No, they’re not,” I tell him staunchly, despite the past and everything. “People can be wrong. People can be wrong lots of times. People can exaggerate. They can tell stories. They misunderstand. Because maybe they don’t know the real story. Maybe there’s a lot that they don’t know. And if they don’t, then they need to. I need to. I need to know, Reign. So you have to tell me. You have to say something, give me something. You have to —”
“Pretty little drama queen, aren’t you?”
I’m surprised that I stopped talking, given that his murmured words were a lot quieter than my own. They were a lot quieter than my heartbeats even.
My heart’s going wild right now.
Ready to burst out of my chest. Ready to explode.
Or it was, until he pumped the brakes.
Now I’m panting, barely able to drag in enough breath as he continues on a drawl, looking all kinds of amused, “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”
“E-excuse me?”
“Or worse,” he continues, moving his eyes up and down my body. “Drench me in your sparkly pink tears.”
“I —”
“Because I thought we just got past that.”
“You —”
“I’m sure you’re pretty as fuck when you cry but I have this one t-shirt and I’d rather you not ruin it with your girly snot.”
“There’s not… going to be any snot.”
His lips twitch. “Because then I’ll have to take it off, and I don’t think you can handle that.”
I blink.
And then think.
About him calling me pretty as fuck. Even when I’m dripping snot on him.
And then I think about that t-shirt he’s wearing that I’m supposed to be dripping snot on.
It’s a soft looking dark thing with a round neck.
It sits snugly across his broad shoulders, highlighting his arched and corded muscles.
And then I think about him taking it off.
How we got from my little outburst to this, I don’t know. That’s his sorcery I think, that he can make me jump through one emotion to the next so seamlessly.
But all I can think about right now is all the times I’ve seen him without his shirt on.