Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
I stare at him for several seconds, trying to put into words what’s going through my head, but nothing comes out.
Because Theodore DeSantis, the owner of DeSantis Investing—a thirty-six-year-old man who owns his own condo, has a great relationship with his parents and siblings, buys me flowers and chocolates, and takes me out on romantic dinners—is perfect.
But I’m not.
“You’re a whore …”
“… you’re now damaged goods.”
I shake myself from my thoughts, refusing to let Andrey get into my head.
He’s been dead for six years—and haunting me for just as long.
“It’s not you,” I tell Theo. “It’s me.”
I walk past him and scoop my purse off the counter.
“So, this is it?” he asks, walking me to the door.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “This is it. I just …” I groan, wishing I could find the damn words. “I’m sorry,” is what I settle on because I don’t know what else to say.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his patient hazel eyes meeting mine. “Because we’ve done this a few times …”
What he means is, I’ve ended our relationship a few times.
Because it’s always the same thing.
I get bored.
And then I start fights.
I ask for things in the bedroom I know he’s not comfortable giving me.
And when he refuses, I push him away.
“I’m sure,” I tell him, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “I’m done.”
Some women might think I’m doing this for his attention. But I know Theo, and he’s not going to chase after or fight for me. He won’t beg me to reconsider because he’s a good guy and he just wants me to be happy.
And I really wish I could be happy with him.
But I’m not.
“Goodbye, Theo,” I say and then head down the hall.
I’m not even to the elevator before I’m texting my friend Nicole and telling her to get ready because I’m picking her up so we can grab a drink. After what went down with Theo, I need a strong shot … or two.
“I still say we should’ve gone to the country club.”
Nicole eyes the bar in disgust and then grabs a napkin in a feeble attempt to clean the area. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough napkins—or bleach—to save this place. But points to her for trying.
“We always go there.” I slide onto the barstool, praying STDs can’t be contracted by touch. “And it’s always the same asshats frequenting the bar.”
Their hats might be Gucci fedoras, but that’s beside the point.
When my heels attempt to leave the ground, they momentarily resist due to the stickiness on the wood floor. I cringe, and Nicole catches it.
“Nope, I can’t do it.” She stands. “There has to be a place that’s cleaner than here.”
“Yeah, and my brothers own them all.”
And while they don’t care what I do, the last thing I want is for word to get back to them that I’m at a bar, looking for a hookup.
Years ago, neither of them would’ve judged, but now that they’ve both found love, they can’t seem to understand why everyone else in the world hasn’t.
I’m happy for them—I am.
Dominick has Peyton and my three adorable nephews. And Matteo has Daniella and a baby girl on the way. And they’re all so damn happy that they want everyone around them to be happy.
But what they don’t understand is that I want to be happy.
I want what they have.
But I’m broken.
“Brielle, please,” Nicole pleads, her green eyes begging me to get her out of this place. “You know I adore you, and I’m your loyal wingwoman, but this place is …”
She shivers rather than finishing her sentence, and I glance around, taking the place in. It’s a tiki bar on the water in South Harbor Point. I’m sure, at some point, it was beautiful, but now, it’s run-down, and it needs a good cleaning—or to be torched—and even the salty air is tainted by the burned smell of fish.
“Fine,” I grumble.
She releases a breath of relief. “Thank you, thank you. First drink is on me.”
I roll my eyes.
While the gesture is sweet, we both come from money, so neither of us needs anyone to buy us a drink.
Nicole’s father is the mayor of Harbor Point and comes from old money. And my family pretty much runs the city—between all the hotels, restaurants, and clubs they own. Even the main port that handles almost all the import and export in South Florida is owned and run by my brothers.
“You’re finding somewhere to go,” I tell her, immediately regretting it because I already know where she’s going to insist we go.
“Gladly,” she says as we exit out of the side door. “Besides, if my father knew I was here, I’d never hear the end of it.”
I don’t know much about her father, aside from the fact that my brothers hate him. When they found out I had befriended Nicole—after chatting with her a few times when I frequented her coffee shop, Lattes and Words—they warned me to stay away from her. But we clicked, and since I refuse to let anyone ever tell me what to do again, I told them that while I appreciated their warning, I wouldn’t be heeding it.