Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Because he’s uncomfortable with the subject of grief? Or because he doesn’t want to talk about his mom?
I don’t know. I always hate when I don’t know, but it’s different here. Not an intellectual frustration. An emotional one.
He brings his attention back to me. “I’d rather talk about something else.”
“Okay.” I want to stay on this, and I want to run a million miles away.
“You still owe me an answer.”
“Straight from death to mommy issues to sex?” I ask.
The joke eases the tension in the air. It sends a smile to his lips. “Of course.” He takes a long sip of his water. “It’s your turn to share. What was it you liked? What was it that worked for you?”
Chapter Twenty
Deanna
Why don’t you want to talk about your mom?
It’s ridiculous to accuse him of deflecting with a deflection of my own, but the question bounces around my brain all the same.
I rarely share details about my pain. Any pain. But when it comes to my mom, I keep those feelings locked up tight. People don’t want to hear the truth. People don’t want to hear my mom died when I was thirteen and it was horrible watching her fade. I hated every minute of it. I miss her every day.
They want to hear something nice, something pleasant, something that tactfully informs without bringing down the mood.
But Death isn’t well-mannered. And all the polite terms for it are bullshit. Mom didn’t pass on. She faded and died, and I had to be strong for her and Lexi and Dad. Because she was scared, and I couldn’t put my fear on her.
And the appropriate reaction to how are your parents isn’t my mom is dead, actually.
But then I guess my mom dumped me with my grandma isn’t the appropriate answer, either.
River is not the hopeless romantic artist he sees himself as. Sure, he’s a romantic, and he’s artistic, but he’s not jumping to pour his emotions onto the table. He’s not diving straight into big, messy, ugly things because they’re honest and real and whatever else people use to describe art.
And I’m not holding everything back, even though I’m an analytical programmer who struggles with feelings. I’m not as cold as ice, even if I am a merciless businesswoman.
We fit into our roles in certain ways.
He struggles with his as much as I struggle with mine. He isn’t all butterflies and storm clouds. He’s logic and reason, too.
Maybe that means he can move past old hang-ups. Old obsessions.
Into someone else, someone different.
“Deanna?” River leans a little closer. He keeps his voice soft, caring. “Are you okay?”
“Tired.”
“We can get more tea or some coffee.”
“Soon.” I want to move away from the subject of death, too. Even if it’s to the equally dangerous topic of sex. But I need to keep it abstract, not personal. “I’m trying a version of the app with sexual compatibility.”
His pupils dilate. Again.
“It’s a secret,” I say. “Because it always overwhelms things. Sex.”
“It tends to do that.”
“People don’t know how to combine sexual and romantic compatibility. Especially when it comes to apps. Either you’re looking for marriage, and sex is a secondary or tertiary concern, or you’re looking to hook up, and the rest is irrelevant.”
“Is it that simple?” he asks.
“Maybe not, in people’s heads, but from a marketing point of view, yes. The second you mention sex, that’s the focus of the app.”
“You’re not answering my question,” he says.
“What question?”
Epiphany fills his eyes. “Who was the last person who blew your mind? What did you like about it?”
“I’m getting there.”
He raises a brow, but he doesn’t object.
“That night, after the meeting, one of the guys on the marketing team emailed me about sex. The concept. How we’d add it to the app. He had good questions, so I met him at the hotel bar.”
His eyes flit to my lips, my shoulders, my chest.
I feel naked, but it’s in the best possible way. “I showed up in my suit. He was in his, too. Back then, I wore black, not pink, which only made me look more—”
“Like a Domme.”
I hesitate. “Is it obvious where this goes?”
“You have a type.” His smile is wicked. “Not that I blame the guy.”
My cheeks flush. Because he sees me. Because he wants me. “He started talking about how much he loves a powerful, in-control woman. It took me five minutes to realize what he meant. I had to call Lexi to bail me out.”
“How’d she do it?”
“She came downstairs and distracted him.”
“How?” he asks.
“She flirted.”
“Was he more interested in her?”
He wasn’t. At the time, I thought he was. I thought he was moved by her blonde hair and her sweet smile. But he wasn’t. “No. That’s the first time that’s ever happened.”
“I doubt that.”
“Forgive me, but I can’t take your word for it.” Because you have a crush on her. Because you want her. Because you believe she’s your everything.