Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Cami is Cristina’s older sister, who became a single mom to her seven-year-old last year when her husband—also in the military—left her for some woman he’d met on his last deployment. She’s funny, gorgeous, and totally age-appropriate for a guy in his early thirties.
I, on the other hand, am probably about ten years Dean’s junior, at a very different stage of life, and have zero interest in being a stepparent. I had enough drama with my stepmother in the three years she and my father were married, thank you very much. I would rather need help getting on the toilet for the rest of my life than be trapped in that kind of dynamic again, even if it were from the other side of the parenting fence.
Cristina is right. Dean is not for me.
So, I smile as she returns with two bowls of ice cream and say, “You should arrange for them to bump into each other sometime.”
Cris beams as she reaches for the remote. “That’s what I thought. And don’t worry, cutie, we’ll find someone fabulous for you when you’re ready to date again.” She pats my leg gently. “And we can swap out your wheelchair tomorrow before we head to the bookstore. No worries.”
“Sounds great, thanks,” I say, my throat tight.
Cris shoots me a sideways glance as she clicks on the DVD player. “Are you okay? You weren’t hurt, were you? If you were, we should—”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I say, forcing a brighter note into my tone. “Just ready for a pain pill. I’m going to take it as soon as I’ve got some ice cream in my stomach.” I nod toward the television. “Let’s start it. Barnaby is dying for some Mia Thermopolis. He told me so.”
Barnaby huffs as he flops down on the floor at Cristina’s feet, making us both laugh. A beat later, The Princess Diaries menu screen pops up with its little crown spinning in the corner, and Cristina makes a noise of anticipatory delight as she digs into her ice cream.
I dive into mine, too, doing my best not to think about the hottie next door.
He’s a dad, and that’s a dealbreaker. I don’t date men with children. That’s just a fact about me, the same way it’s a fact that I play bass and not guitar, that I learned to sew before I learned how to work the washing machine, and that I cry at the end of Toy Story 3, even though I’ve seen it about a dozen times.
It’s just a thing that’s true.
Because I would never want to hurt a kid the way I was hurt. And because love is hard enough without added complications like ex-wives and kids and a ten-year age-gap.
On screen, Anne Hathaway discovers she’s a princess just as I scrape the last of the brownie chunk ice cream from the bottom of the bowl. I take my pain pill, sit back, and wait for the sad, disappointed feeling to go away.
It doesn’t. Which is just…dumb!
You don’t catch feelings in five minutes. That’s not how feelings work. That’s not how anything works! High school girls in movies don’t even catch feelings that fast, and they have a script and orchestral soundtracks and makeover montages.
I am twenty-three years old. I am in two casts with at least five weeks of serious healing ahead of me. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get my jobs back or what life in NOLA looks like for me moving forward. I have to focus on surviving, then thriving. Dating is seriously the last thing on my list right now.
That’s the truth.
I remind myself of that again and again, until I finally fall asleep near the end of the movie and dream of riding a giant crow into battle, dressed in fantasy armor, with Dean in the saddle behind me, whispering sexy things into my ear.
Chapter Twenty-One
BEATRICE
Magic hour in New Orleans doesn’t ease in sweet and dreamy, lingering like a goodbye kiss, the way it did on the Scottish coastline.
It descends in an amber siege, flooding every flower and trailing vine in the Botanical Garden with light so golden it’s like staring at the world through a filter made of honey. The air is cooler tonight, but still humid, still thick and seductive on my skin, like the garden is as excited about what we’re up to this evening as I am.
Like it wants in on the witchy revolution.
I start the shoot in a faux snakeskin dress by a stand of silk floss trees that are dripping in magenta blossoms. My makeup team touches up my blush so I don’t look washed out in the vivid light, and Duncan, one of the best fashion photographers working in New Orleans, gets down to business.
“Chin up, jaw loose, lips parted just a hint,” he says, shifting to the right, his assistant trailing him with a bounce board to keep the shadows from under my eyes. “That’s it, now look down at the lens. Just eyes, don’t move your chin. Hold. Exhale and…perfect!” The shutter clicks several times as I lift my chin higher, closing and opening my eyes a few times to keep my gaze alive.