Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
When I glanced back at Emily, she was staring at her phone like it was about to blow up.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She jumped a little like she’d forgotten I was there before she forced a smile and tucked her phone away again. “Yeah. Just a text from my parents.”
I arched a brow. “Wow. Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not,” she said simply, shrugging. “Oh! What about this one? Now this will get you laid,” she said, pulling the lever to let the tailgate down on the back of a Chevy Colorado. “Right here probably, if we’re getting into details. Want to test it out? Quick — jump up here and pin me to the bed.”
She patted the spot next to her with a wicked grin, and fuck if I didn’t want to throw all caution to the wind and do exactly what she said. I wanted to do it just to see the surprise on her face, just to hear her breath hitch when I called her on her bluff and showed her exactly what I’d do if we weren’t contractually obligated to stay away from each other.
Instead, I ignored the comment, knowing acknowledging it would lead to trouble.
“Again, too expensive,” I said, sliding my hands into my pockets as I stopped in front of her. “Why aren’t you happy to hear from your parents?”
“Why won’t you let yourself buy a car even five grand over your ridiculously low budget because of your family?”
“I asked you first.”
Emily sighed, letting her head fall back before she popped off the bed of the truck and shut the tailgate. “I’m twenty-nine years old living with a roommate and dancing for a football team. Do you think any parents would be proud of that?”
“Lots, actually.”
“Well, not mine.” She crossed her arms over her chest as we started walking again, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her wear defensive body language. I realized that even though she was making light of the whole thing, this was something that actually got to her.
It made me want to wrap her up in my arms, just to give her a moment of being held, a brief sanctuary of peace.
I shook off the thought before it could plant roots.
“My father comes from a very affluent family in London.”
“Where’s your accent?”
She flipped me off, but I succeeded in getting her to smile a bit. “He’s also a very successful hedge fund advisor. And my mom is a lawyer.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“Oh, they’re lovely,” she said quickly, waving a hand like she needed to correct the record before I got the wrong idea. “They’re actually great parents. Supportive. Loving. Financially… extremely enabling.”
“That last part sounded loaded.”
Emily kicked a small rock across the pavement as we walked past a row of sedans, her voice drifting into a casual, half-distracted tone.
“I mean, imagine growing up with two people who have their lives that together. Dad’s advising billionaires on where to park their money, Mom’s dismantling corporations in court for fun. And then there’s me.”
She spread her arms.
“Professional sparkly pompoms shaker.”
“That’s not fair,” I said.
“No, it’s accurate,” she countered lightly. “I went to a very expensive university, majored in… well, technically communications, though I’m not sure I communicated much besides ‘please extend the deadline’ and ‘yes, I will have another margarita.’”
I huffed a laugh.
“Communications was just the cover up for my real degree, though — dance. But I knew that was a joke to my parents. To everyone but me, probably.”
“How do you know it was a joke to them?”
“Because when I told them, my mom asked what I would do for money.”
I winced. “Ouch.”
She nodded. “Yeah. So, I double majored. I wanted the fun thing and the responsible thing.” She paused. “My parents never pressured me. But there was always this… I don’t know, this unspoken thing they did. I call it the Huxley Pause.”
“Sounds like a line dance you do at weddings.”
“Far less fun, unfortunately.” She came to a halt, turning to face me with a sigh. “It’s this awful, weighted pause that sits between us any time I update them on my life or tell them something I achieved or want to pursue. They look at each other like I don’t know what they’re thinking, like I can’t see the disappointment and worry in their eyes. Then, one of them will turn to me all bright-eyed and smiley and say something like, ‘Wow, that’s lovely, honey!’ or ‘That sounds perfect for you. We’re so proud.’”
I blinked. “So… they say something nice?”
“Exactly,” she said, pointing at me, but her confirmation just confused me more. “Except it’s not actually nice. It’s more like… like they wish I was living a different life, but they don’t want to push me, so they placate me instead and pretend like they’re so proud of my choices when I know they’re not. And it’s just put this rift between us. It’s… I don’t know.”