Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
And yet I couldn’t have been further from the mark. Yet again, Elliot proved he was not a man who I could predict.
I was in the living room slash kitchen area. It was all one room, the compact space somehow feeling open. Spacious. An oversized, well-worn armchair was in front of a wood burning fireplace with a bursting bookshelf spanning each side of it. The mantel was crowded with framed pictures. A quick glance told me they were all of his family—Clara, his mother. The ocean. Memories. Happiness.
A faded rug covered polished hardwood floors which were sparkling clean. As was the rest of the space, the kitchen was tidy with gleaming appliances, butcher block island, copper pots and pans dangling from hooks above it.
I looked out the window from above the kitchen sink at the dense trees that made it seem like we were in the middle of nowhere, not ten minutes from Jupiter, only a few miles from Avery and Kane’s house which was on the other side of the woods.
“Not on the ocean?” I surprised myself by asking him. The act of doing it was admitting, however subtly, that I’d been wrong. Pegged him wrong. What I’d consider to be a grave show of weakness in any other interaction I had with a man.
But Elliot was not any other man.
Arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back into a warm, toned body. His stubble brushed against the skin of my neck, making me shiver.
Despite the intimacy of the pose and the fact that I’d never been a cuddler, I leaned back into Elliot’s embrace. We could pretend here, in his little house, with the books, the fireplace, the armchair, the photos. I could be the woman who cuddled the fisherman, who deserved to be there, who could be content somewhere so simple, with a man who was far from simple. For the night, at least.
In the morning, I promised myself. In the morning, I’d end it. For that night, I’d just enjoy it.
I was aware that I was acting like an addict, promising myself one more fix before going cold turkey. Though I’d never considered myself an addict, I’d had a healthy affinity for narcotics. Going off them abruptly had been uncomfortable but not unbearable. I’d never craved drugs the way I craved Elliot.
“I live my life on the ocean.” His rasped words tickled my cheek. “I love it. Grew up on it. But when I’m on land, I want to be on land. Solid footing.”
A simple answer from a seemingly simple man.
But if he was so simple, he wouldn’t see through me so easily. Or maybe I wasn’t as complicated as I thought I was.
My gaze centered on a photo of a smiling girl in a black tutu.
“How is Clara?” My concern was real. Her immune system was extremely compromised still, so they were being cautious. A simple cold could prove catastrophic while her body’s natural defenses recovered.
Elliot’s smile changed, morphing somehow. It was still warm and hopeful. Reverent, with a glimpse of the love he felt for his niece. “She’s good. We don’t want to get our hopes up too soon, but I’m a hopeful motherfucker, so I’m going to say she’s better than good.”
My muscles sagged with relief, and I felt myself smiling. “I’m so glad.” My mind moved to more unpleasant topics best left avoided, given my knowledge, but I couldn’t help myself. “And Naomi, after the transplant?”
“Gone,” Elliot replied with an edge. “And I’m a hopeful motherfucker, so I thought even with plenty of evidence to the contrary, that she would be the mother that Clara deserves.” He sucked in a breath that was painful to even listen to. “I mean, how could you not want to be her mother?” He asked quietly. “Just spending a second with her, you know she’s something special, extraordinary, and you can’t help but feel honored to even know her.” Elliot’s eyes shimmered, and he didn’t even try to hide the single tear that escaped his eye.
He unabashedly wiped it away, a gesture that was so intensely masculine even though it went against all conventional notions about stoic men.
I wrestled with the complicated emotions I felt over knowing Naomi was gone for good and would never darken their door again. A major one being the guilt I felt that I was there in his living room, knowing someone had murdered her. That I’d been party to it.
“Some people are just bad,” was my response to Elliot. “We’re not meant to say that. It’s trendy to believe there’s good inside the worst of us, but I don’t believe that to be true. And you can count your blessings that she doesn’t sully the glorious person that Clara is with an ounce of her evil.”
Elliot searched my face, spending a long time on my mouth.