The Image of You Read Online Melanie Moreland

Categories Genre: Angst, Contemporary, Drama, New Adult, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
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“And then?”

“I’ll have to look. I’m sure there is something on the schedule. We’ll probably see each other for coffee or dinner at some point.”

I didn’t want her seeing him at all.

I rested my forehead to hers, trying to figure out when I had become this jealous caveman. I had never felt possessive about anything in my life until I met her.

Still, I didn’t make any demands. I didn’t tell her she couldn’t help her friend. I resisted the urge to tell her she was mine now and the only person she could date—fake or otherwise—was me. She already had enough people in her life telling her what she should or shouldn’t do.

“Can we discuss this again before then?”

She tilted her head back. “Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t really feel like going for a walk.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I’m kinda tired.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

I drew her closer, my lips hovering over hers. “Maybe just the nap, then?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

“Indeed.”

CHAPTER

SIX

I pulled my mouth away from hers with a groan. Kissing Ally was highly addictive. The way she whispered my name and tugged at my hair with her fingers drove me crazy. The smoothness of her skin as I slipped my hands under her shirt was a tease of something still forbidden. Having her body pressed into mine was torture, because I wanted more—even if it was too soon. What was supposed to be a nap was now dangerously close to becoming me tearing her clothes off and fucking her deep into my mattress. I rolled off the bed, breathing hard. “Naptime is over,” I stated.

She eyed my evident erection with a small grin. “Obviously.”

I stomped over to the kitchen. “Keep looking at me like that, and you’ll be sorry.”

She shook her head as she passed by. “I doubt sorry is the right word.”

I smirked, liking the fact that I affected her too. But we knew it was too fast.

After I handed her a cup of coffee, she walked around the loft, spending a lot of time looking at my cameras and asking questions.

“You don’t have any of your photos displayed.”

“No, I keep it simple. I don’t want to look at my own work most of the time.”

When she studied my display case, I sat at the desk behind her.

“These are special to you.”

“They belonged to my parents. After they died, my uncle Jack saved them all for me.”

“They were both photographers?”

“My mother was a professional photographer. My dad was a historian and an author. The books are his. Ones he wrote and his journals. They loved to travel the world. They took me with them as often as possible.” I scratched the back of my neck, unused to sharing personal information with someone. “I didn’t exactly have the usual upbringing. I was absent from school more than I was there.”

“But what an education you must have had, regardless.”

“Yeah, my parents insisted I bring schoolbooks with me, and they taught me, too. I saw so much of the world and experienced life differently from the classmates I would eventually be with. I never fit in.”

“When did they die?”

I swallowed around the emotion building in my throat. “I was thirteen, and I broke my leg. We had a trip planned to Brazil, but I couldn’t go. I stayed with some friends of theirs, and they went—it was only supposed to be a short trip, but there was an accident. The bus they were riding in crashed in the mountains.” I traced the edge of the desk, not looking at her. “There were no survivors.”

I pointed to the top shelf, and the camera with the cracked lens and broken case. “That is the only camera my mom had with her, and somehow my uncle got it back. I keep it because I know she touched it. Morbid, I suppose.”

Ally stroked my shoulder. “No, not morbid. It makes you feel close to her.”

“Yes.” Usually, I didn’t like to talk about my feelings, but with Ally, it felt right.

“I keep an old book of Ollie’s. No one knows I have it. It was his favorite, and sometimes I hold it, just remembering how he used to read it constantly.”

“Which book is it?

“Peter Pan. He loved that story.”

I pulled her to my lap, kissing the top of her head. “Then you understand.”

“Yes.”

I fingered the metal around my wrist. “This was my dad’s. My mom gave it to him. One of the links had broken, so he hadn’t taken it with him. My uncle had it fixed for me. I never take it off.”

She traced her finger over the silver, the heavy links scarred from years of wear and abuse.

“And these, ah, leather bands?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

I chuckled, remembering her teasing in the hospital. “Those are because I like them. I’m cool that way.”

“Yes, you are.”


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