Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I follow their line of vision to the glinting diamond I slipped on my finger. Oh.
“It was my mom’s. I lost it last night. I guess he found it. Long story.”
Taylor’s mouth makes the shape of an O but he doesn’t say anything, just trades a glance with Poppy, a worried one. I’ve seen that furtive look between them more than once, but I don’t address it because addressing it means I’ll have to explain about my mother.
“We’re here for long stories, Julia,” he murmurs.
“That we are,” Poppy says brightly. “All you have to do is talk.”
I shrug, keeping my eyes down. “Hmm.”
He heads past me to the antique white stove. “Fine. Breakfast it is. I’m making kippers!”
Poppy laughs. “No one in here eats kippers, Taylor. Where do you even get those smelly things?”
It’s entirely possible he gets them from Sparrow Lake. He’s just crazy enough to attempt to go fishing there. Probably in his silk robe. But there’s also a chance that his family sent them to him in their care packages, which consist of Cadbury Twirls, Marmite, Quavers Crisps and shortbread biscuits. I’m thankful he shares it with me, because usually all I buy is ramen. He can keep the kippers, though.
He also loaned me money. I still haven’t paid him back. I rub my forehead. The list of people I owe makes my stomach hurt.
I pour a big cup of coffee, douse it with creamer, then make one for Taylor and hand it to him as he moves from the stove to the fridge, pulling things out and generally playing host. Sure enough, he has a mason jar of some oily, amorphous things which he throws on a hot pan. The smell hits me halfway across the room.
Poppy sips her hot tea. “I saw Eric a lot last spring. He was in my theater appreciation class. Everyone flocked to him. You’d think he was giving away free candy.”
I snort. “I’ll bet.”
“He’s very sexy,” she continues dreamily, then looks at me and clears her throat. “Well, to everyone but you. You never have liked him.”
Taylor pokes the sizzling fish in the pan. “I’d like to flock all over him.”
I pop open a window to get fresh air in the kitchen. “Believe me, he’s totally overrated.”
Poppy gives me an inquiring look. “There’s always been this, I don’t know, energy between you two. What happened?”
I’m not giving them the R-rated version. That story is dead to me. “We went to prep school together.”
Poppy gasps. “Julia! You were school friends with him and you never told us?”
I sigh. In her world, everyone is a friend. A stranger is a friend you haven’t met yet. She’s an all-the-woodland-creatures-follow-me-around-the-forest-and-isn’t-life-just-awesome kind of girl.
I wince. I used to be like her.
I take a sip of my coffee. “Sorry.”
“Okay, so he was mean to you in high school and now you want to hate-fuck him?” Taylor asks.
I glare. “No.”
Poppy nods vigorously as if his theory makes sense. “Do you fancy him, Julia?”
I smirk. Taylor’s British has a way of rubbing off on us.
“Was he one of your clients at Platinum Nights?” Taylor asks.
“He’s not like that,” I say, frowning. Someone like Eric doesn’t need to feed women dollar bills to make them go crazy over him. “I’m not his type, and there are plenty of ready females that are. Not to mention he’s not my type.” I stick a bite of scrambled eggs in my mouth and chew to cover the lie. He’s exactly my kind of poison.
Tall, built, and protective to the point of stupidity.
“Were you hurt by him?” Taylor asks.
I exhale gustily. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Eric was not proposing to me. Never, ever, ever. I don’t like him; he doesn’t like me. We hate each other. The end.”
Taylor sets a plate of little fish in front of me. They’ve been split open in a butterfly fashion from head to toe, salted, smoked, then fried. The briny, woody scent assails my nose and I swallow.
“Can I tempt you, love?” He waves the flowy arms of his kimono.
My stomach rolls. “You’re, um, sweet, to make breakfast. Are there any more eggs?”
He nudges the plate closer to me. “You’ve lost weight. Come on, get some real protein. They’re high in Omega fatty acids.”
There’s an edge to his voice, and I get it, I do. They haven’t seen me much this summer, both of them out of town, and I’ve lost weight since May. My hip bones protrude and my face is thinner.
“Try it, please,” he begs and I groan because I can’t resist his puppy dog eyes.
I grab my fork, pointing it at him as he takes the seat across from me. “Fine, but I’m not promising I’ll like it.”
He watches me with excitement as I poke the brown fish, get a tiny bit on my fork, stick it in my mouth, then wash it down with a sip of coffee.