Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I’m in the belly of the beast now.
The entryway is large and mostly empty, with a mirror on the wall and a console table beneath it. A potted orchid sits on top with a delicate lace doily underneath. Just beyond that is an archway leading to a blue salon. It’s full of furniture but no people.
“This way,” Tor says, leading me down a hall beside the stairs.
“I’m starting to see why you related so much to Gatsby,” I mutter.
He smirks at me over his shoulder, but continues to the end of the hall. It opens to a massive kitchen, where a woman I don’t recognize stands in a white chef’s coat, preparing food at the massive island.
“Hi, Paula,” Tor says casually.
She flashes him a smile. “They’re in the family room.”
He thanks her, then turns around, leading me back the way we came.
I don’t recall a Paula Walters, but I wait until we’re out of earshot to ask. “Another relative?”
“The private chef.”
“Ah, of course. Mine is Helga. She’s shy. That’s why you haven’t met her.”
Tor smiles at my joke, but he’s too busy navigating the labyrinth of this fucking house to respond.
This time, we go around the other side of the stairs. We pass a room full of books on the right, and I stop, letting Tor tug my wrist. “Wait, I like that one,” I tell him. “Is that a library? Do you have a library?”
“It’s my dad’s study.”
“Oh.”
Of course Carson Walters gets the room with all the pretty books.
“He doesn’t like guests in there without him, but maybe I’ll show it to you later,” Tor says. “He has some first editions you’d probably enjoy perusing.”
My eyes widen. “I could never touch a first edition, but I’d like to look. What’s his favorite one?”
“Probably one of the Hemingways.”
“One of?” I demand. “As in, he has multiple?”
Tor shrugs. “Personally, I think the guy’s overrated.”
I think Carson Walters is overrated and he should give me his first editions so they have a loving home, but I don’t say that because it’s not nice.
I’m distracted by the room full of books, so I don’t realize the mouth to hell has opened up in front of us until Tor leads me through an archway and into a room unlike all the others—a room with people in it.
My heart skids to a forceful stop, the sight of Tessa coming into view first. She’s sitting on the end of a brown leather couch, her gaze on her phone. Like me, she’s wearing a pretty dress, but hers is turquoise and fitted with a slim black belt, and her heels are much taller. Her long dark hair is glossy and falls in a waterfall over her shoulder.
The rest of the couch is empty, so I follow Tor’s gaze to the brown leather chair in front of him. A lady is sitting on the arm. Her dress is maroon, her heels shiny patent-leather black with red soles like my sandals have, and her dark hair falls just above her shoulders. She’s wearing pearls and red lipstick, her fingernails painted to match her dress.
Myra Walters.
Behind her, a man stands looking out the window, his back to us. I realize he has a view of the driveway from here and probably watched us arrive.
My heart sinks as he turns, and the cool blue eyes of Carson Walters meet mine.
Immediately, I have a flashback to the last time I faced them in court. Those same blue eyes, that same austere face. He’s not smiling now, but on that day, Carson’s mouth tugged up as Myra hugged her son. They were celebrating their victory—and my defeat.
That was one of the most humiliating days of my life, and the only good thing about it was knowing I would never have to be in a room with all these people ever again.
Yet here I am.
Well, minus one of them.
My legs feel so wobbly that I think they might give out on me.
This feels terrible.
I feel like chum in a den of sharks.
I can’t believe I let Tor talk me into this.
And then Myra speaks. “Oh, your dress is so lovely.”
My breath catches as Myra stands, a warm smile on her pretty face as she looks me over.
“Oh, the lace. I love this.”
I’m startled when she walks over and pets the material along my bodice, but I stay frozen like a bear is approaching me and I don’t want to be eaten by it.
“Mom, don’t pet her,” Tor says.
“That’s his job,” Tessa says dryly from her spot on the couch.
My cheeks flush. I feel like an exhibit in a museum—if exhibits could be nauseous—but once my mind catches up, I realize Myra is being very welcoming. I should smile.
I try, but it feels like a grimace. I might have missed my target.
Tor’s hand finds my waist, and he tugs me away from his mom toward a loveseat opposite the couch where no one is sitting. On the way there, I look back at Tor’s father and find his gaze raking over me, inventorying my dress, my shoes, every aspect of my appearance.