Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
A gasp from the end of the hall snaps us apart, and both our heads turn toward the startled sound. Jill stands there, her hand over her mouth, but she’s unable to hide her enormous smile.
“I knew it!” she squeals, her green eyes practically dancing while she claps her hands and literally bounces up and down. “Oh, my Godddddah!!!”
I no longer care if Jill knows. Hell, if anyone knows. I would prefer that, but I check Verity’s face, which goes from aghast to resigned, to this quiet kind of happiness that looks a lot like peace.
FORTY-EIGHT
Verity
I taste the air.
It’s sweet and tart and savory. A trinity of sensations melting under my tongue and sliding down my throat, not settling in my belly, but floating. Lining my stomach with hope and euphoria.
The sky is nothing as pedestrian as blue. It’s cobalt, struck through with azure. And the sun—blazing, molten gold. The wind whispers to me; caressing my ears and whistling through, filling, widening the desolate, narrow pathways in my mind.
My blood is humming, a thousand melodies singing through my capillaries and veins, carried to my heart.
My skin is shrink-wrapped to my muscle and bones. So perfectly fit it’s baked onto this body.
I’m expanding. So fucking alive the walls—dead trees and drywall—can’t contain me. That’s why I’m out here. Outside by Monk’s pool. I toss one of my shoes into the water and watch it skid across the surface like a skipping rock and then sink to the bottom. The ripples are mesmerizing, and even when the oven beeps inside, snapping my reverie, it’s hard to pull myself away from the aquamarine water.
I hurry in from the patio, skidding to a halt in the kitchen and pulling out the crusty loaf I made from scratch with my new bread maker.
Why did I ever buy bread in the store?
It takes no time to make. And I’m really good at it.
“Monk’s gonna love this,” I mutter, setting the pan of bread on the stovetop.
I check the marry me pasta, the sauce rich and scarlet, studded with cherry tomatoes.
Bejeweled with spinach and basil.
“Bejeweled,” I say aloud, testing the word. “Bejeweled. Beeeee-juled.”
It sounds strange. When you say it over and over like that.
I survey Monk’s kitchen, the counters filled with various dishes and the air scented with delicious food I’ve been preparing for hours. I can’t wait for him to get home. It’s been a few weeks since Neevah’s collapse. We’ve been back in LA a few days, but I’ve barely been to my house. I’ve been here with him and it’s so good. It’s felt so right.
“What’s all this?” Monk asks from the door.
I turn and practically squeal at the sight of him in his dark jeans and the mint-green shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. God, his forearms. Muscles, veins, burnished skin.
“Hiiii!” I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around his waist.
“Hi, yourself.” He smiles down at me, his eyes warm, his hands firm at my hips. “You’re… happy.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” I tip up and kiss him lightly.
He frowns over my shoulder at the huge spread of food in the kitchen. “I thought we said we’d keep it simple since we’re both so busy.”
“I did keep it simple. I just made a few things so we’d have options.”
“A few things?” His brows lift and his gaze drifts to the stove. “Like what?”
“Chicken cacciatore, garlic butter pork chops, mixed veggies, steak, and marry me pasta.” I pinch his cheek. “Don’t let the name fool ya. I’m not expecting a proposal.”
“Okayyyy.” He studies my face for a few seconds, searching my eyes, before his expression loosens into a smile. “It smells delicious. I just know you have that meeting with the studio tomorrow. I didn’t think you’d have time for all this.”
“Don’t remind me.” I drop my head to his shoulder. “I hate the shit I’ve come up with. I’ve been so uninspired.”
“You’ve been busy.” He lifts my chin with one finger until I’m forced to look into his eyes. “You were working on Dessi the last few months. Of course it was hard to focus. They should understand.”
“I’ll just pitch them my sucky idea and tell them I’ll have something better in a few weeks, now that things have wrapped.”
“Wrapped for you. Now I gotta score this thing. We’ll grab the last of Neevah’s studio recordings once she’s better.” Monk blows out an elongated breath that carries the same worry I feel. “Yeah, they’ve stopped production until further notice.”
“Jesus.” I close my eyes, shaken by the gravity of Neevah’s condition. “I can only imagine how terrified she is.”
“Canon too, though he tries to hide it. He’s kind of shifted to post-production, even though there’s a couple of scenes Neevah and Trey need to finish.”
“You still going to New York to work on that album?” I ask.