Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
When I pull away, he’s looking at the photos on the wall. The ones of his parents, of Harry Truman, of Dex with his brothers. His family. His legacy.
“How was work?” I ask. “You’re home early.”
A tiny frown pulls at his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth. He toys with a sleek pen in front of him before pushing it aside.
“Did you know President Truman was almost destitute when he retired?” he asks, standing and following the line of photos. His shoulders are squared, hands behind his back. Army discipline through and through.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“He’s the reason the presidential pension was passed. The Rory family paid for a significant chunk of his legacy, plus seed money for his library later on.”
“Okay. That’s cool.” I don’t know where this is going, but I don’t dare interrupt his train of thought. “That’s a great thing for your family legacy, right?”
“We’ve done a lot of great things.” He pauses, looking over the photos with a strange heaviness.
I’m not used to seeing him like this. Usually, he’s big and bold, strikingly confident in his world and his unshakeable place in it.
But his life is a big pond. He was born on the shoulders of people who palled around with presidents.
Maybe even bigger than he can fill.
“It’s not an easy thing, building a business from the ground up,” he says, the change of subject so abrupt I blink. “There’s a fuckton of work, brutal expectations, plus everything hanging on whether or not we succeed.”
“Like Colton?” I venture.
“Colt’s the reason Archer is so desperate to make this work, but it’s more than that, honestly. This is our chance to put the family name back on the map for a success in this century. For reasons that have nothing to do with how big our checks are to charities and museums.”
I still don’t get why he’s so hung up on this tonight.
I frown, walking up to him until I’m close enough to slide my arms around his waist. At first, he’s stiff, every muscle tensed before he relaxes into my touch, leaning into me.
His decisions are meticulous.
Everything he does is deliberate and expertly thought out.
Well, everything except for me. I’m only here because he made a huge mistake. I still don’t know what that means.
In the photo, his grandfather stands next to Harry Truman and his entourage, tall men in suits wearing proud smiles.
Such a long time ago. Such a long shadow. Such big boots to fill.
“It would have been easy as hell to just live off the family fortune,” Dexter says. “There’s more than enough to go around. We could all live in Mother’s house easily without having to see each other.” He gives a bitter laugh. “But if we did that, what do we leave behind?”
“I mean, you blew that out of the water. You’re an overachiever, Dex, and so are your brothers.” I tighten my arms around him, stepping into his embrace.
“We try.”
“I’ve seen how hard you work.” I turn him around so he’s facing me.
He brushes a stray curl back from my face.
Strange how he seemed so cold once, so unapproachable. Now, there’s so much softness in his face, even if it’s only there for me.
“But this history lecture… that isn’t all that’s wrong, is it?”
He half smiles, though his eyebrows pinch in a tiny frown again. God, I want to smooth it away.
“How do you do it, woman? Always seeing right through me.”
“Oh, please. Like you’re hard to read.”
My hand sweeps across his thigh, so close to where I know I’ll find him hard.
He chuckles, but it fades quickly as he looks down at me.
“It’s Haute. It’s always that fuck,” he growls. “Something about his offer still rubs me the wrong way. I’m sure it’s nothing, but due diligence is in order. Including what he wants with your bakery, sweetheart.”
I swallow, taking a moment to soothe my emotions.
It’s perfectly natural that he’s having second thoughts, especially when all this is bringing me deeper into his life.
That’s not what we agreed, after all.
And it’s cool that he doesn’t want to be involved any longer than we planned.
I can’t be mad at him for that, even if my heart hates being broken.
I step back to preserve the sorely needed space between us.
Space is good when we’re going to talk about heavy stuff, despite the absence of his heat feeling like a lost layer of my own skin.
“Dex, if mixing up the Sugar Bowl with your business makes things too complicated for you, I get it,” I say. My voice is too distant, too cold, and I clear my throat. “I mean, I know this agreement was only meant to last six months and—”
“Goddamn, woman.” His voice is rough as he takes my arm and pulls me back into him. Back into his warmth, his scent, his safety. “This isn’t about you.”