Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“How’s the ranch?” Stuffing the last bit of sandwich in his mouth, he balled up the paper and threw it in the trash can a few feet from the bench. Nothing but air.
“Nice shot.”
“Played basketball with Jordan a time or two.” Frank winked at me. I didn’t doubt his claim. He had the pictures in his office to prove it.
“I don’t know much about raising cattle, but from what I’ve gathered from speaking to his assistant and ranch manager, his profit margins have been growing every year. He’s doing well, runs it tight.”
Frank’s face transformed. The mild amusement melted away only to be replaced by soberness. He looked tired all of a sudden.
“He loves it, Frank,” I said as gently as I could. It was obvious he was disheartened by the news. Whatever suspicion I had about Frank hoping for the return of the prodigal son was confirmed. “And it suits him. He doesn’t even look the same.”
He stared ahead, lost in thought.
“You haven’t told him you’re ill,” I said, hands flat on my lap, perfectly still. “I don’t feel right about keeping it from him. It feels like a lie…like I’m deceiving him.” With each day that passed, it bothered me more. It wasn’t right to withhold such information. And my gut told me it would eventually blow up, most likely in my face.
That seemed to shake Frank out of the trace he was in. “I need more time. Once I tell him, everything changes.” I didn’t understand “needing time,” but I wasn’t about to deny a dying man his wish.
“I’ll tell him soon. Promise me you won’t say anything, Syd.”
As much as it pained me, I nodded. I could never betray him. “I promise.”
Before I’d even decided how to deal with Scott––murder unfortunately not being an option––Frank’s party was upon us. At this point I figured if he wanted to continue being an ass, he could dig his own grave and Frank could bury him. I had neither the time nor the willingness to play games with him. Moreover, I was going to do my absolute best to pretend “the bathroom” never happened.
I stepped out of my building across from Central Park and into a sharp January chill. It had me wishing I’d worn something heavier than a cashmere wrap over the garnet-colored Carolina Herrera one-sleeve gown I’d bought for the occasion. If my grandparents could see me now.
“Ladies are demure, Sydney. Harlots like your mother wear jeans and see-through shirts.” My grandmother had imparted this wisdom on a shopping expedition to JC Penny. The trigger had been a pair of OshKosh B’gosh pink denim culottes I’d picked out and a t-shirt with a rainbow on it. Because I loved rainbows. I was eleven at the time.
A black Mercedes 500 was parked at the curb, Scott leaning against it with his hands shoved in the pockets of his tuxedo pants and his face tipped down like he was inspecting the shine on his shoes. Freshly shaved and with his hair parted and slicked back, he looked more like the playboy he’d once been than the rancher he’d become. Sensing me standing a few feet away, he glanced up abruptly and his expression put me in mind of an errant schoolboy who’d been caught doing something very naughty. Like gaslighting his new wife, perhaps? Jackass.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in a little over two weeks and it felt like we were starting from scratch. Or worse. With a heavy amount of suspicion and distrust between us. He stepped away from the car and began to approach, but the look on my face brought him up short.
“Hi,” he said, tried for a smile and gave up when he saw my reaction or lack thereof.
“Hello.”
Well, this was awkward. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms, unsure whether they were caused by the bitter cold or by the way he was looking at me. His blue eyes roamed with abandon from my hair to the dark painted toes poking out from under my dress. It made me feel seen, exposed. Like he was slowly peeling away my armor, trying to get past my defenses. As if I would ever allow that to happen again.
“You look…” A gust of breath, an expression of near defeat on his face. A genuine one. “Beautiful.”
Then I remembered that my husband was a con artist. “Let’s get this over with so you can go back home.”
Opening the back door, Scott helped me in and followed.
“You’re still mad.” Gazing ahead with a sulky frown, he was devastatingly handsome, I begrudgingly had to admit. So I locked it down, kept my eyes trained ahead, and tried not to look at him unless absolutely necessary because this jackass and his drop-dead sensuality made a woman forget to protect herself. And now that I knew what it was like to kiss him, feel him, I was smart enough to know I was in twice as much danger.