Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“No way.” I chuckle, then stop myself. “Well, I am a member technically. I just don’t participate in anything and kind of hope they’ll forget I’m supposed to be there so I can fade into oblivion.”
He takes a bite of the candy. “Why don’t you just quit?”
“You clearly don’t know my mother. There is no crying in baseball and no quitting the social club.”
He chuckles, his jaw flexing with every chew. It’s distracting. “But if you hate it …”
“It would break her heart,” I say as if that’s reason enough to continue participation in a club I don’t want to be in. “Her friends’ daughters are members, and it would devastate her if her only daughter weren’t a part of it, too. I couldn’t do that to her.”
He lifts a brow. “But if you hate it …” he says again, as if my point didn’t land—or he didn’t accept it as a valid excuse.
I take a long drink of tea and sit with his phrase. But if you hate it. I do hate it. I hate everything about the social club, charity events that aren’t done in the spirit of helping actual charities, and tennis games scheduled to show off the latest tennis couture. And even though I’d love to resign, I value my mother’s heart more.
My thoughts go to her call about Dad’s party, and my spirits sink. It’s going to be awful. It’ll be a contest over who can wear the most expensive jewelry. Seth will be there with his new wife, which gives me major anxiety, and Lewis Lemon scored an invitation. I must wonder—do my parents hate me?
It’s a terrible thought, and I know it’s untrue. They don’t know the truth about Lewis and me. If they did, I’m sure they’d feel much differently.
But that doesn’t change this party and how soul-crushing it’s going to be for me. Because no matter what I do or say, somehow, I won’t measure up. And my parents will be sure I know it. A subtle dig here, a certain tone there that no one else will pick up but me.
“It’s a simple thing,” I say, setting my glass down. “And it doesn’t take up that much of my time to just pay my dues every year and make it to a meeting once or twice.”
“Time is all you really have. Seems like a big thing to sacrifice to me.”
I shift in my seat, slightly annoyed. “Are you telling me that you don’t do anything you don’t want to do?”
“Correct.” He pops another piece of candy into his mouth as if we’re discussing the weather. “If I don’t want to do it, I don’t. Sometimes that costs me, but I can sleep at night.”
“You wouldn’t do it even if it made someone else wildly happy?”
He swallows slowly, taking his precious time. Then he leans against the table and folds his muscled arms in front of him. “The only person in the world that I give a fuck about their happiness is my mom. And if something makes her happy, there’s no way it can make me miserable because I’d do just about anything to make her smile.”
My chest warms, an ache growing right behind my ribs as if my emotions are growing faster than my body can expand to hold them. The mix of tenderness and love in his face is so pure. Honest. Good.
The man is a walking juxtaposition—a gorgeous riddle. Sharp, yet soft. Intense, but gentle. He’s unfiltered but emotionally open. His confidence is disarming, and his carpe diem attitude is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. He’s not the kind of guy I’m used to being around, and the fact that I’m more relaxed around this mischief-maker than I am around men I’ve known my whole life boggles my mind.
Brooks leans back, wincing as he moves. His arm is an angry red and swollen around the makeshift stitches. It must hurt so much.
I grab my purse off the chair beside me and drop it on the table next to my computer. Clearing my throat, I focus on finding a bottle of anti-inflammatory pills. I’m not sure what to say or where to go from here.
“That’s a sweet thing to say about your mother,” I say. “You must have a pretty great dad.”
“He’s dead.”
My eyes flash to his, the pills clinking against the bottle in my hand as I jerk upright. His words are crisp with each syllable enunciated with a definitive, intentional coolness that’s a huge shift from moments ago.
“I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not. We’re all better off with him in the ground.”
Oh.
“He was a giant piece of shit who died when I was seventeen,” Brooks says, breaking a piece of chocolate off the bar and popping it into his mouth. “Dying was the only nice thing he ever did for us.”