Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Bishop, no.” Harold shifts his eyes from me to the woman he’s been in love with for years. “It’s your sister’s house. You and Hen just need—”
“Some space, like I said.” I push my hands into the pockets of my pants. “It’ll be business as usual in every other way.”
“You don’t have to do that, Trevor.” Henrietta swallows and blinks back tears. “I’m only trying to help. You know I love you like a brother, and I only want the best for you. I always want the best for you.”
I bend to kiss her head, squeezing her shoulder when she leans into me.
“I know, Hen.” I straighten and look from her to Harold. “But you don’t see what I see.”
“And what’s that?” Henrietta asks, voice still watery with her tears.
“Sofie is what’s best for me.”
Henrietta drops her forehead to her fist, eyes closed.
“I’ll see you guys when you get back.”
And with that, I leave the dining room, already feeling lighter because I know tomorrow I’ll be exactly where I need to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sofie
I thought work would offer an escape, and it does distract me from the pandemonium some, but I can lose myself for only so long before the situation with Kyle pokes a hole in the bubble, reminding me that every time I step outside, my picture is taken and splattered everywhere like mud dragged in from a storm. Every morning I wake up to new sordid details about my past, some true and some concocted. Every day another blogger posts about me, supporting or tearing down. It doesn’t matter to me anymore really. I don’t want my name on anyone’s lips. The selective microscope I’m under magnifies every flaw, but somehow seems to overlook any good I’ve ever done.
I prop my elbows on my desk and cover my face with my hands. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t expect to feel so alone. Like I’m standing absolutely naked in the middle of an amphitheater, hungry lions licking their chops over me, their next kill, their next meal. Ironic, since exposing my body has never bothered me. But this exposure of the soul, it’s gnashing at my peace of mind.
Three taps at my office door pull me back to the task at hand. Stil pokes her head in, a strangely eager light in her eyes.
“Hiya!” She walks into the office and places a salad in front of me. “How’s the day going?”
I shrug one shoulder, pulling the salad toward me even though my appetite has been nearly nonexistent.
“It’s fine.” I pop open the clear plastic top, wrinkling my nose at the salad. “It has olives and feta.”
“Yeah, that’s how the Greeks do it, sweetie.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t resist a grin. My first of the day.
“Smart-ass.”
“One of us has to be.” Stil leans over the desk and snatches one of the olives I have no intention of eating. “You used to love olives.”
“That was in 2008. I haven’t eaten olives in years. It’s like you don’t even know me.”
“Bitch,” Stil mutters, chewing her olive.
“Hussy,” I mutter back, my smile growing even wider. I needed this. Something other than Kyle Manchester and the media breathing down my neck.
“François’s office called.” Stil crosses her legs and settles back into her seat. “He wants to meet tomorrow to finalize details for Friday’s press conference to unveil Goddess.”
“Is it still at the Gansevoort?”
“Yep, François wants a final fitting for your dress when we can squeeze it in.”
“Can we do Wednesday instead? And see if he can pull a few things for me to consider from his evening collection for the Walsh Foundation’s benefit next month.”
My heart lightens at the thought of being involved in the foundation’s work again, even in that small way.
“Sure thing, Sof.”
My cell phone on the edge of the desk rings, and Stil reaches for it before I do. It’s become a habit for her with so many people calling to ask me questions, express their support or skepticism. She’s become the grand call screener. Thank God for her.
“Speak of the devil.” Stil inspects the screen. “It’s Jo Walsh.”
“Perfect. I have some ideas I need to share for the benefit.”
I reach for the phone, already smiling. After Martin and Kristeene Bennett divorced, Walsh spent his summers in Rivermont with his mother, her brother, and his cousin Jo Walsh. I, in turn, would spend half my summer there, too. I don’t know that Jo and I were what you’d call close growing up, but we tolerated each other, which was more than we did for most girls. She was always too busy trailing after Walsh and his best friend, Cam, to show much interest in the things that fascinated me—namely makeup, clothes, and boys.
“Hey, Jo.” I nod at Stil when she indicates that she’s stepping out. “I was just thinking about you. Well, about the benefit.”