Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Jeez, everything about him is abrasive.
Is it really a surprise?
He might have gone off to do who knows what in the Army, but he was always a moody young man, just like he is now. He’s just gotten better at hiding it.
He frowns down at me, meeting my gaze in a flash of midnight eyes.
Tingles.
Uncomfortable freaking tingles spark through me like a current as my eyes dart away too fast.
Note to self: do not look at him when it isn’t necessary.
It’s right up there with staring into the sun.
I guess I can add that to the endless list of inappropriate movements at these bashes for the wealthy.
Across the room, Margot laughs, throwing her head back. Her stance is perfectly calculated to show off the long lines of her legs.
She’s so effortlessly elegant.
I’ll never understand why she doesn’t date more. It wouldn’t be hard for her to find a rich and handsome husband at these balls, surely.
That’s what happens when you’re born into it, I guess.
A gong chimes shortly after Ethan has made his introductions, summoning us to dinner in a gigantic great room.
I hope he can’t feel my sweaty hand on his arm as he leads me across to our own table in a secluded corner.
Joy.
I’m not expecting the gentleman act when he pulls out my chair and helps me into my seat. When he sits across from me, his gaze lands on me for a heartbeat.
Silence.
Eerily intense.
My face heats.
We haven’t really had a private conversation with just the two of us yet, which is absurd when we’re technically engaged.
When we were kids, he had no interest in talking, beyond screwing with my head. I wasn’t exactly dying to spend time with a boy who lacked a moral bone in his body, either.
So now here we are.
I pour myself some wine and take a sip.
There are no menus—Ethan must have ordered for us in advance, so I can’t even pretend to browse my meal options. Seconds later, the first course arrives—a summer corn soup with crab that gives me a welcome distraction.
Just as we’re finishing, another plate slides in front of me. I have perfectly cooked salmon with a savory glaze laid out in front of me.
The smell is heaven.
My eyes flick to Ethan’s beef Wellington, then to his face.
“I remembered you like fish,” he says.
What.
I can’t help the double take. Thankfully, he doesn’t appear to notice.
I dig my fork in the food and sigh happily after a bite.
“That’s nice of you. We need to talk at some point, though.”
He looks at me. I can’t help thinking he looks at home in silence.
It wraps around him like a second skin, adding to his guarded mystique. But it’s making me a little antsy, amplifying the buzz from the attention being thrown my way.
“Anytime. What specifically?” He leans back in his chair, finally looking me full in the face.
“Well, um… what should we talk about on dates?” He should know—he must have way more experience than me.
“This isn’t that kind of date, Hattie,” he growls.
Good. I was starting to worry Mr. Insufferable was gone.
I give my best attempt at a professional smile. Pretend he’s a difficult customer. Just like at the bookstore.
“People should see us talking, right?”
He sighs. Poor man.
Talking to me must be such a chore. It makes me want to shut up, but I force myself to find a topic that won’t push too many of his oh-so-sensitive buttons.
Impossible, probably, but I give it a go anyway.
“What’s your favorite color?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are we in second grade?”
“Well, what’s on your mind?”
He runs the rim of his wineglass against his bottom lip before he answers, thinking, and I do my best not to admire it.
“I don’t think I have a favorite color.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. Everyone has a favorite color.”
“Really,” he says skeptically, a drawl that heats my cheeks. Thankfully, the fifty layers of foundation means he can’t see it. “In that case, what’s yours?”
“Red,” I say immediately, smirking. Was that really so hard? “It’s just the best. Nice and vibrant.”
“What study backs that up?” He leans in, exchanging his almost-scowl for an almost-frown. I’m not sure it’s an improvement. “You can’t make a claim like that without the data to support it.”
“Really, dude? You’re trying to pick a fight over colors?”
He leans back in his chair and snorts, the corner of his mouth turning up. Just a fraction. “All right. Give me something worth arguing over.”
“Okay, fine. Tell me why your mother’s the Blackthorn, but you and Margot have the family name. She never took on your father’s name?”
A whisper of a smile.
“My parents are unorthodox people. Dad realized early on we’d be better off with a name that carries weight. When the time came to get our names on the birth certificate, he insisted. Hell, my mother never changed her name when they tied the knot, and around the time I was two, Dad decided to hyphenate his name.”