Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
He moves into the room and the conversation drops, just a little, not enough to be rude but enough that I know I’m not the only one noticing. A woman in a flowery dress stops mid-laugh; a waiter steps out of the way without being asked. Even Henry glances over the shoulder of the best man, and his face does a thing that’s almost pride.
But then I see her.
She’s platinum. Not just blonde, but icicle-bright, the kind of color that only happens in bottles or TV studios. The hair is down, all the way to the waist, in loose waves so perfect they could be synthetic. She’s medium height, but that’s not what’s making men’s eyes pop out. It’s the body, squeezed into a tight outfit that’s only slightly more appropriate than hooker-wear. Seriously, the red dress is cut down to there, showing off giant tits, and the skirt of the outfit stops about two inches below her pussy. Couple that with dramatic makeup, and what do we have? A gorgeous, sexy woman who stands out like a hooker at a garden party.
Does my stepbrother care?
Hell no.
She probably is a hooker, and Trevor wouldn’t care.
He smiles like a fucking hound dog, and then leans down to whisper something into his date’s ear. I see her lean into him, like they’ve rehearsed it, or maybe just because she likes how it feels. She giggles prettily, flipping that icy hair over one shoulder, and then moves as Trevor guides her with one hand in the small of her flawless back.
There are micro-reactions all around me: a man at the next table mutters something, a little too loud; a bridesmaid near the bar actually blinks and looks down at her own chest, then back up.
The jaw-dropping couple stop, perfectly framed under a chandelier, and I think even the lighting makes an exception for them. Trevor’s eyes move around the room, taking it in, and for half a second he scans right over me. Nothing flickers on his face. Not recognition, not surprise, not even the faintest hint of acknowledgment. I might as well be one of the waitstaff.
His date, on the other hand, smiles like she’s on stage—a slow, deliberate up-curl of her red lips that’s mesmerizing. Not that anyone’s looking at her face. We’re all staring at her tits because damn, those things defy gravity with every inhale. Then, the couple pauses at the head table.
I remember, belatedly, to breathe.
My stomach does a slow, ugly flip, and I become aware of every single thing wrong with me: the soft pouch at my middle, the way my arms look next to the bare shoulders of every Pilates addict in the room, the fact that my hair is the kind that frizzes in humidity and tonight is no exception. I lower my glass, conscious of my posture, and tell myself that this is what I signed up for, isn’t it? My stepbrother’s a handsome asshole, so of course, he’s brought a date that looks like a porn star.
I find my mother’s gaze across the room. She gives me a tiny, unreadable smile.
I tell myself, again, that I am a grown woman, with a job, an apartment, and, at least in theory, a working self-esteem.
I watch as Trevor and his date say hello to my mother and Henry. There’s a pause, a little ballet of head-tilts and air kisses, and I realize with horror that I’ve drifted close enough to be within the blast radius. Maybe I want to hear what Trevor’s voice sounds like tonight, or maybe I’m just a moth who never learned. He smiles, that same even, unhurried smile, and introduces his date as Cassandra. I watch Victoria’s lips move around the name, a polite moue, and then the next second she’s in on the secret—Trevor knows what the room is thinking.
“Cassandra,” he says, just loud enough to carry, “please meet my lovely stepmother, Victoria, and Henry, my father.” The names are deliberate, like he wants to remind everyone whose family this is. “And Kayleigh, my stepsister.”
Cassandra looks me over, her gaze skipping down to my dress, up to my hair, and then straight into my eyes. There’s a glimmer of recognition—amusement, maybe. “Hi, Kayleigh. Call me Cassie, no one says Cassandra,” she adds with a breathy giggle.
I say something—“Nice to meet you,” probably—but my voice has gone damp and unreliable. Cassie’s smile doesn’t linger on me. She’s looking at Trevor again, and he is looking at her, like a beast surveying its prey.
Henry’s handshake is brief, almost clinical, but his eyes take in every millimeter of Cassie’s skin and his lips barely twitch. “Welcome,” he says in a low, gravelly voice that gives nothing away. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Victoria tries. She really does. She says something about the color of Cassie’s dress (“stunning on you, darling”), and Cassie simpers, and the whole thing is so staged that for a second I feel like I’m watching from outside my own body. My mother’s laugh is light, and her hand rests on my shoulder like I’m her favorite accessory.