Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
I take the seat right next to Delia, while they sit across from us, making goo-goo eyes at each other.
My stomach flips over.
If it wasn’t for the shock and awe sitting next to me, I think I would’ve already yacked a couple times.
Less than a minute later, a sharp-dressed man strides into the room. He plates up our food and pours wine.
I’m grateful for having food to focus on, even if what should be a delicious spread is bound to tastes rancid after this shot to the face.
Everybody tucks into their salad and drinks—except for poor Delia, who picks at her grub like a bird with a bellyache.
“You’re a busy lady, aren’t you, Delia? Journalism, is it?” I ask, recalling the one thing I’ve heard about her. “You really should eat. Keep up your strength.”
She gives me that wide-eyed look of pain and disbelief again.
“Journalism. Right,” she answers softly, her voice so strained. “I’m on a summer diet. Too many bad influences around campus.”
“I figured. You don’t look like the type who’d get carried away doing things you shouldn’t,” I growl, stabbing my fork through a tomato.
She smiles down at her plate.
She won’t even look at me.
For some unholy reason, that pisses me off, even knowing it’s not her fault.
The only one I have to blame for this insane cosmic joke is God.
Before I think too hard, I reach under the table, catching her thigh with my fingers. I squeeze her firmly.
“Lighten up. I’m just dicking around,” I say, ignoring the wary look Ma shoots across the table. “Sure hope you have something going to help blow off steam. Doing one paper after the next must get stressful. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
My mother coughs.
I look at her while Delia shoots one hand down, trying to shove my hand away without alerting our parents.
Yes, I’m a jackass.
I just don’t care.
It’s too fun getting her hot and bothered. Emphasis on bothered.
As fucked up as this is, I’d still like nothing better than to slide between these silk thighs.
A warped part of me says do it because it’s spitting in the face of whatever evil spirit worked its black magic to keep us apart.
“Not my Cordelia. I’m afraid my girl has always been rather shy with the boys,” Bruce says carefully, scooping up his risotto the instant it’s laid in front of him by another servant.
“Dad!” she chirps loudly. “Can we not talk about this?”
Interesting.
Looks like Delia does one hell of a tomato impression.
Now she’s hot, bothered, and pissed off.
One more pinch of her skin from yours truly ratchets up the pressure before I tear my hand away, lifting it over the table to grab some bread.
I try not to laugh while I ignore her offended death-glare.
“She’ll catch on soon,” I say, giving Bruce a wink. “Or some dude will catch her, I’m sure. Can’t believe she’s not engaged to some college kid with a triple major yet. She seems like such a nice girl.”
Daddy dearest chuckles like the ignoramus he is. “Oh, there’s plenty of time for that. She’s just a very focused student—and a mighty fine painter, too, if you ask her about that. Though she’s almost as modest with her art as she is with dating.”
I look at my red-faced stepsister.
She doesn’t breathe a word while she pretends to pick at her food.
I’m actually interested, but forcing another secret out of her at this point would just be cruel.
“Her last semester’s coming up in the fall, and she’s been picking away at her thesis all summer,” Bruce tells me.
“Thesis, huh? What subject?”
“I haven’t decided,” she snaps, taking an angry sip of wine. “Something exciting, hopefully. It takes a lot to impress my professor, but I’ll manage. He’s the kind of guy who loves tragic stories, whatever tugs on the heartstrings.”
I can’t help it.
I roll my eyes.
Ma gives me a horrified look.
“Not even graduated yet and you already talk like a reporter. Choose your sob stories carefully, lady. It’s not always fun being on the receiving end of some gangly, embedded media jackoff who doesn’t think twice about tweeting sensitive info or posting it on that clock app.”
“Chris!” Mom’s silverware crashes against the china plate. “I apologize for my son’s mouth, Cordelia. He’s lived his adult life in the military, and he gets a little bent out of shape about these issues...”
Bent out of shape?
Right.
I guess that’s what you’d call it when Iranian mercenaries rip your friend’s leg off with an unlucky shot in a dark Syrian village.
Never mind the devious shit that’s been going on Stateside in my newer missions.
Still, I hold my tongue.
Delia flips her long black hair over one shoulder. “It’s okay, Evie. Really. It’s actually enlightening to hear from someone on the other side. I took a whole class last semester about story sensitivity.”
I snort at how cold she sounds.