Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Was it easy or hard?”
“Easy,” Colin says. “If you’re hoping there’s some wild child beneath the frown waiting to be freed, you’ll be disappointed. Not that I was perfect. I put a frog in my babysitter’s bed, broke a few windows with my friend—accidentally. But mostly I’ve always been, what was it—emotionally stunted?”
I wince. “I guess I could have just said you were quiet.”
“You could have.”
“Did I hurt your feelings?”
“Can someone who’s emotionally stunted even have feelings?”
“That’s not an answer,” I challenge.
He looks down at his plate then slowly lifts his gaze back to mine, his eyes guarded. “Just because I don’t show my every emotion, doesn’t mean I don’t have them.”
“Fair enough,” I answer carefully, knowing I need to tread lightly. “So, I’m curious … how did Rebecca coax you out of your turtle shell?”
He rolls his eyes. “What?”
“You know. If you’re the turtle,” I say, awkwardly miming a little creature tucked into the safety of its shell. “How did she get you to show your soft side?”
“Why do you always have to make everything so weird?” he mutters, taking a sip of his drink.
“Emotions aren’t weird,” I say a little sharply. “If you don’t want to be criticized for not showing every emotion, shouldn’t the opposite also be true? Shouldn’t I be allowed to wear my heart on my sleeve?”
He looks surprised by my outburst. “I guess it’s never occurred to me that you ever wanted—or needed—to be allowed to do anything. You just … do it.”
“And that drives you crazy. You said as much in the car.”
“Well. Yes. You’re a bit turbulent to be around.”
“Turbulent,” I say, my anger fading slightly. “I like that.”
“You would.” But he’s smiling a little, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s starting to realize that a little turbulence might be exactly what he needs in his life.
Chapter 25
Saturday, September 12
“Hi!” I say with a smile, setting my weekender back on the floor and greeting the woman at the front desk of our hotel. “I have a room reserved under Walsh?”
“Two beds,” Colin says before the woman can say a single word. “We’ll need two beds.”
I step hard on Colin’s foot, gratified when he winces.
“Yes, two beds would be great,” I say smoothly. “My husband here has a pretty intense rash.”
Now he tries to step on my foot, but I’m way ahead of him and shift out of the way.
The woman wisely ignores my overshare as she clicks away on her computer. “Ah. Yes. Here we are, one room for Mr. and Mrs. Walsh.”
Colin gives me a sharp look, which I ignore. I’ve never pretended to take his name before now, and I’m not entirely sure what compelled me to do so when I made the hotel reservations. Nor do I completely understand why I like the idea of being a Mrs. so much. Apparently, all it takes is a two-minute conversation about remarrying and having kids, and I turn into an aspiring June Cleaver.
“I see you’re one of our Platinum members, which makes you eligible for an upgrade, but I’m afraid the only suite we have left has a king bed …”
“The regular room with two beds will be fine,” Colin says, already handing over his credit card and ID.
“It’s a really bad rash,” I say in a loud whisper. “You remembered to pack your cream, right, darling?”
“Yes, my pet. I tucked it in right alongside your hemorrhoid cream so we could keep all the medicated ointments together.”
I choke on a laugh. Not bad, Mr. Walsh. Not bad at all.
The woman completes the transaction and hands us our keys in record time, wisely wanting no part of our verbal sparring and medicated ointments.
“There’s a complimentary breakfast from six thirty to eleven tomorrow, though I feel I should point out that tomorrow being Sunday, there are a couple of great brunches in town. We’re also known for our antique stores, and a lot of people enjoy grabbing a bite on the main street before or after perusing the shops. Do you like antiques?”
I try to think of a polite way to say not really, but Colin answers first. “My mother loved them.”
I look over in surprise, and I’m not the only one. Colin looks downright shocked at his own announcement. But the woman behind the counter isn’t aware that my husband isn’t exactly famous for sharing emotional anecdotes ever, and she merely smiles.
“Any era in particular?”
“No. She couldn’t afford to buy much, but any time we passed one, she’d drag me inside. Said being surrounded by items with a story reminded her that we’re all the same. That we’re all just people, regardless of what decade we’re born in. Anyway,” he says quickly, looking embarrassed as he holds up the key cards. “Thanks for these.”
She points us to the elevators, and the second the doors close, Colin speaks: “Be quiet. I don’t want to discuss it further, so not a single word.”