Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
I leave Angus staring out the window in his spot on the windowsill and get into my car. I turn the music up as I drive farther downtown in a vain attempt to brighten my mood. Music is good.
I park outside Arabella’s store, just behind Dayton’s car, and get out. She joins me on the sidewalk and locks her car.
“I’m confused. Why are we at Arabella’s and not a bridal store?”
“Because they’re all the fucking same at the bridal stores. It’s honestly like looking at one pair of shoes with minor adjustments—an extra crystal here, a bow there, a ruche under there. Now, Arabella’s,” she says, pushing open the door and glancing over her shoulder at me, “has real shoes.”
As opposed to what? The dress-up ones at the bridal stores?
Whatever. I’ll go with it.
I follow her in. My stomach flutters like a teen girl faced with her first crush. Seriously. The shoes. The shiny and the colors and the heels and the… And breathe, Liv. Breathe.
“Find pink ones,” she orders me. “Light-pink ones. To match your dress.”
“Really? I was considering those lime-green ones over there.” I roll my eyes.
I look around the store for Sean. If ever I needed my shoe buyer, it’s right now. There are so many gorgeous pairs assaulting my eyes that I don’t think I can concentrate or indeed focus on a single pair.
After ten minutes, I’m no closer to finding a pair than I was when I walked in. I groan. There’s nothing wrong with any of these shoes. I just really can’t focus on one pair for long enough to even find a freakin’ pink pair.
“Are you going to the party on Saturday night?” Dayton sits on the seat next to me and dumps four shoe boxes in front of her. That’s not fair.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Did you tell Tyler yet?”
“How do you know about that? Ooh, I like those!” My eyes widen at the white Louboutins.
“Gorgeous, right?” She strokes them. “He came over after your little…disappearing act. Wanted to ask me why American women are so fucking flighty. Hilarious, really, when you consider that he was constantly annoyed about being hounded by women back home.”
I make a sound somewhere between annoyance and disgust. I don’t want to think about him being with other women. It’s childish and ridiculous, but I don’t want to think about him whispering the things he does to me to another woman.
“What did he say?” I try to sound disinterested, but I fail miserably. Fact is, I’m dying to know what he said. It’s been two days since we’ve spoken, since I ran away from him, and I feel odd.
I feel a little lost.
“When he’d finally finished bemoaning your flightiness and inability to discuss anything more than serious than ‘Let’s fuck,’ he told me he’d asked you to go with him for a date.” She shoots me a sly glance and tries on a pair of Prada shoes. She immediately discards them. “And then it all made sense.”
I nibble the inside of my lip. “I panicked. Like, really panicked. Then, when I’d talked myself down and decided that it won’t hurt me if we go together, I was too ashamed to call him.”
“He waited there—on the pier. In case you went back. For an hour.”
My mouth dries at this. He waited for me? What… I… “He’s a fool.”
She snorts. “Tyler is many things, but a fool isn’t one of them. A prick? An asshole? A sex-obsessed douchenugget? Yes. A fool? No.”
So she’s right. “I haven’t called him yet, no. I’m too… I don’t know. It’s awkward. What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I know I abandoned you two days ago, but I’ll be your date’?”
“You should call him today. He could ask someone else.”
“What?” I freeze.
“He mentioned…offhand…that, and I quote, ‘I should take someone else with me and see if that gives her the kick up her gorgeous, stubborn arse she fucking needs.’”
“What does that even mean?”
Dayton gives me a look that says I’m a dumbass. “Liv, open your eyes. He likes you.”
“I’m a likable person.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a fucking nightmare, as proven by this conversation.” She pinches my arm. Ouch. Bitch. “He likes you. He’s being patient with you. He’s staying in territory you’re both completely comfortable with—sex. But now, he wants more. You both have commitment issues, but you’ve been fucking around for, like, three weeks now. Asking you to be his date to a party held in his cousin’s honor isn’t anything serious. And here you are, acting like a fucking virgin at an orgy.”
“I’m not—” I begin, but I quickly shut my mouth. I am. I’m acting exactly like that. And despite my own issues, the crazy bullshit inside me, he doesn’t deserve that.
He deserves one or the other. All of me or none of me.