Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“I didn’t know how,” he said. “You were this wish I had to keep secret. This thing I couldn’t want. But then your father started talking about that ridiculous arrangement and I saw the other men he’d told about it start to gear up, and then it became more about protecting you from them. And protecting you from your father. That was something I could do.”
“Clayton,” I sighed, melting into him.
“And…” he tightened his arms around me “…I regret that you never got your day. Your day to be the beautiful bride.”
“Well,” I said, “if we let Sabrina plan the wedding it will be the event of the year.”
“Do you want that?”
“I want you,” I said. “And I want to be married and I want my sisters to be safe and happy.”
“A lot of birds with one stone,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll call Sabrina. But we better have some parameters in place or she’ll have us leaving in hot-air balloons.”
“As long as I’m leaving with you, I don’t care.”
So. I was getting married. And as soon as we asked Sabrina to plan it, it became exceedingly real. She put us on a schedule and made lists. She made lists of lists. The wedding was set for June 17, literally one day after Dylan’s deadline. And the fact that we only had a few months to plan it seemed, according to Sabrina, like an impossible mission.
“It can be small,” I told her. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
She gasped so hard she nearly passed out. “Not a big deal? Bite your tongue, Ronnie. You’re a King. We are a big deal.”
No one had heard from Dylan. And that seemed about right, if a little sad. Dylan wasn’t coming back. He didn’t care enough to save us or ruin us. That’s how little the King sisters meant to him.
Bea, Sabrina, and I all pretended we didn’t care. And I couldn’t speak for them—but I cared a little bit.
Bea was furious with me. Absolutely livid.
She still accepted the money to pay off her debt. But it wasn’t easy and I felt bad for her, I really did. The number of times she’d had to swallow her pride had undoubtedly been a few too many.
Then change, I thought.
But she helped me pack up my stuff from our Austin house.
“I can’t believe you’re not going to be here,” she said, putting books in boxes. “It’s like the house will be haunted.”
“It won’t be that bad,” I said. But she gestured to the walls, where I’d taken down the artwork I was going to take with me to Clayton’s condo. The half-empty walls did seem a little haunted. “Maybe you should find a little apartment,” I said. “Something closer to downtown.”
“If I’m moving, I’m leaving Austin,” she said. “Too many bad memories.”
“You can stay with us—”
“With you and Clayton? Are you joking?”
“Then the ranch?”
“With Sabrina?”
“You know, beggers can’t actually be choosers, Bea,” I snapped, and she looked away, back to the bookcase. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“No. I am. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a mess and I can’t ever seem to clean up on my own.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“You’ve already done enough. Too much, probably. I’ll figure this out on my own.”
I forced myself to keep my mouth shut, because she did need to do this on her own. That it was hard for me was my problem.
“You should just take this bookcase,” she said.
“Clayton has tons of bookshelves.” The silence after my words was deafening. “He’s going to be my husband,” I said. “I wish you could move on from what happened. I have.”
“Listen to me,” she begged. “Please. You’re forgetting what it was like because you’re drunk on sex. But this guy lied to you. Over and over again. I’m telling you as a person who’s had way too much experience with liars—he won’t stop.”
“He had his reasons and they were complicated.” I said. I hadn’t explained Clayton’s relationship with his father except to tell her that Dale made our father look like Mr. Rogers. “He’s kind of like a feral cat. I’m just trying to get him up on the porch.”
“You’re comparing your fiancé to a feral cat in an effort to convince me to approve?” she asked.
“Well, you’re a little feral yourself.”
She didn’t like that.
“Does he love you?” she asked. “Has he actually said the words or are you convincing yourself he feels something because you need him to feel something?”
This was such a weird sore spot. On one hand, what did the words matter if I was so happy? And he was happy, too?
But on the other—the words really mattered.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s how you know it’s bullshit.”
“Look!” I snapped. “I know you’ve had shit luck with guys. I know you’re bitter. I get it. But I am happy, Bea. I am…so happy. Can’t you just be happy for me?”