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)
She hesitates.
“The kind who used to pull pages out of my favorite books for fun?”
“Yeah, and I bought you new copies, didn’t I? Better ones. I’d leave you hardbacks before you left to go home.” I’m closer now, leaning over her, my hand on her arm, though I don’t remember putting it there.
Her perfume merges with the heady summer night, something rich like hints of mocha or plum.
“You were the one who sent the books?” she whispers.
“Who did you think? Margot?” I snort. “Don’t think she’s ever read a complete novel in her life that wasn’t for school or a fashion show. She absorbed damn near everything from the movies, the brat.”
“And you weren’t one too?” She sucks in a breath through parted lips.
“I was a hellraiser, but I never meant to hurt you, Pages.” The old name comes back too easily, landing between us like an arrow, ripping us back to our youth.
Except neither of us are clueless teens anymore.
Her face tilts toward mine, half-shadowed, and she’s practically panting with frustration.
Her chest grazes mine.
My hand is still on her arm.
Fuck, I don’t mean to, but I lean in, the gravity taking over.
Her green eyes widen.
She doesn’t move, yet the collision feels inevitable.
This primal need to taste her, just once.
To remind her who’s in control.
To know what it’s like.
To fix the fucking wires she’s crossed in my brain.
I must be insane, but it can’t stop the way my body responds to her.
Urgent, needy, and overwhelming.
Her lips part. My muscles tighten in anticipation.
Then the door flies open and I hear heels on the pavement as Margot charges through.
Hattie jerks back like she’s been hit by lightning.
I rip myself away, trying to clear my head.
Be happy, you fool. Margot just saved you a ton of fucking grief.
A brutal mistake.
Yes, that’s all it would be.
I’ve gotten too caught up in the past, too mired in the unexpected web of this fakery.
“Congratulations! You guys are a huge hit,” Margot squeals, taking Hattie’s hands and dancing her around in a circle. “See? I knew you’d kill it in that dress. I’m surprised no one has had a heart attack, especially the older guys. Right, Ethan?”
I glare at them, revealing nothing.
Hattie looks at me, her brows creased, like my opinion suddenly means everything.
Goddamn, my collar feels like it’s choking me.
Does she really need to hear it from me?
Isn’t it a given she looks fucking edible tonight?
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Pure knockout.”
“Ignore him. He’s a boring spoiled asshole.” Margot gives me the finger as she rolls her eyes.
I scowl back.
If she’s come here to disrupt everything, she’s succeeding.
My head throbs.
I turn my back to them, massaging my temples as Margot chatters away, complimenting Hattie and telling her how much everyone admires her outfit.
Playing it up to boost her confidence, I’m sure. But knowing Margot, it’s also because she picked the dress and the response fluffs her pride.
In Margot’s head, this is her win as much as Hattie’s.
Annoying.
“…the crazy part is, no one believes PopPop wouldn’t let us do a proper funeral. Lots of weird rumors floating around,” Margot says when I start listening again, twisting her mouth.
Right.
She would have wanted the big formal funeral, the final goodbye.
I hide a smile, knowing that’s not what the wise old man would’ve wanted at all. He saved his pomp and extravagance for when he had a pulse.
What damn good is it when you’re dead?
“That’s Gramps, though,” I say, rejoining the conversation. “He never wanted to waste a second on death. Don’t think he wanted anyone else to bother. Or fret too much about his body ghosting the entire business community.”
“Ugh.” Margot pouts. “Why are his eccentric hang-ups always our problem? We might get it, but everybody else, no. Funerals aren’t for the dead—they’re for the living. For us. And without one, people wonder. Then they open their fat mouths and speculate.”
She isn’t wrong.
I rub the bridge of my nose, watching her frown bitterly.
Maybe the real problem isn’t the lack of a public sendoff.
Gramps didn’t give anyone close to him a second to stop and grieve. Not with the way he checked out and barred all funeral arrangements. That stuffy lawyer drove the point home several times, and Holden Stick-Up-Ass would probably guard his remains against any mourners, if ordered to do so.
Like Margot said, funerals are for the living.
They’re for grieving and cursing God over what you’ve lost.
It’s like no one knew how to handle Gramps’ death because all the usual ways—knowing about it in advance, preparing, hardening your heart, making arrangements for that black emptiness—they’ve all been stripped away.
What’s left is his joke of a will, filled with insane terms and conditions.
If I had to guess, that might be why Hattie agreed to go along with this sham as well.
She certainly doesn’t like me. But what if this is her personal, fucked-up way of saying goodbye?