Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
And perhaps also this teeny, tiny mishap about me catching him acting out a semi-public, semi-violent sexual fantasy.
Ransom needed to win some humanity points with me right now, and, the robot that he was, this was how he chose to do it.
“Wow.” I let out a breath. “I must really look like I need a distraction, if you decided to share this with me.”
“Not a pile.” He flicked the indicator. “Maybe a small mound.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Ransom. What an awful beginning to your life.”
“I survived.”
“Were you adopted?” I swallowed.
“Yes,” he hesitated, as if contemplating whether to tell me more. “The family’s name was Moruzzi. They were well-off. Lived by Lincoln Park. Jack Moruzzi adopted three of us. All boys. But…well, let’s just say it wasn’t a childhood full of Scouts and summer camps.”
“Did he ever…?” I sucked in a breath. Were his fantasies prompted by being abused before? He’d said he’d experienced trauma. I didn’t know. All I knew was that I wanted to try what Ransom was offering by opening up.
But by the way he bristled, flooring the accelerator, I gathered the conversation was over.
“Point is, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Brat. We all have a story, and it’s rarely a fairy tale.”
The way he cut me off, so abruptly, made me want to strike back.
“Does Max have a story?”
Ransom’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing over the road. “Do I look like his biographer? Ask him yourself. He’s supposed to arrive on a later flight tonight and will be covering for me whenever I’ll be away.”
“Why would you be away?” Did he know anyone in Texas? He seemed to know his way around these roads.
“My business.”
“More playdates?” I was pushing it, and I knew it.
“This conversation is over.”
“I really do feel like we’ve had a breakthrough today, though.” I crossed my legs, realizing for the first time that I was still wearing my tacky sweatpants and hoodie from the flight, and that my parents would probably vomit on impact when they saw me. “Now that we’ve opened up about our insecurities, it will be easier to address them and try to be nice to one another. Who knows? Maybe it’s the beginning of a friendship. The way you opened up to me—”
“Brat,” he cut me off.
“Hmm?”
“Shut up.”
An hour later, the Ford Explorer pulled in front of an all-white Mediterranean-style mansion. The manicured lawn was precisely cut, as if the landscaper had used a ruler. There were grand fountains, dramatic columns, and all the status symbols required of a wealthy Dallas family.
Before Ransom turned off the ignition, an unfamiliar man in uniform greeted us from my side of the car. I rolled the window down.
He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a sweaty face and hard-earned wrinkles. “Sorry, folks, this is a private property.”
“I know. I’m the daughter of the people who own it.” I arched my eyebrows meaningfully, the international signal for back-the-hell-off.
His demeanor did not change. In fact, he looked even more suspicious.
“You’re not Hera.” The accusation cut through his tone like a blade.
“No,” I agreed. “I’m their youngest, Hallie.”
He seemed momentarily confused. Finally, he turned around and pressed a walkie-talkie to his mouth. Static noise followed, along with an answer to his question. He began pacing in front of the car. A cold shiver rolled along my skin. I hadn’t visited for so long. I felt like an intruder. For a moment, I even doubted my own legitimacy. Was I truly Anthony and Julianne’s daughter, or had they disinherited me?
“Relax,” Ransom rasped. “We’re getting inside if I have to run this asshole over.”
A warm rush passed through me. It was odd, and almost felt like I had a stomachache. No one had ever stood up for me before.
Finally, the man approached the car again. I took a quick breath, bracing myself for the worst. I hadn’t spoken to my parents since the nip slip.
“Park at the end of the street, then follow me.” He looked grim and uninviting.
Ransom and I exchanged looks. Ransom did as he was told. When we both got out, I crooned, “I think I finally found someone who gives you a run for your money in the personality department.”
The man, who never bothered introducing himself, guided us through the familiar, melodramatic black and white checkered two-story foyer. The house was vast and empty, the clicks of our shoes ricocheting through the walls with a depressing echo. Maids in blue ironed uniforms hurried along the hallway, keeping their gazes down and posture straight. The sound of a piano lesson in session drifted from one of the drawing rooms. My parents often welcomed gifted kids from low-income families for piano lessons. It was good PR, and my mother was a classical music enthusiast.
I never knew what to think about my parents’ charitable gesture toward children. On one hand, it was undoubtedly cool to give back to the community. On the other—shouldn’t they start by being kind to their own child?