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)
“Y-yeah.” A broken giggle slips out of me.
God.
After a kiss like that, I can’t disagree.
I can’t do anything except feel like a lovestruck little fool.
But I also need him to go back to being the Prince of All Asshats fast. Just so I can remember all the reasons why I don’t like him.
He’s been too nice today.
And not his usual ‘nice’ where he cynically buys me an entire freaking bookstore just to streamline schedules, but nice-nice.
He’s being sweet and that’s not supposed to happen.
Rushing to my defense with Mom’s nagging about calories.
Open with the reminiscing about better days.
Intense when he told me I had to be crazy to think there’s anything wrong with me.
This isn’t the Ethan I know.
It’s not even the Ethan from roughly a week ago when I signed on to be his prop.
And then that kiss.
Holy. Hell.
I have no idea how to interpret anything that’s unfolding now.
Practice, fine, but was that really what was on his mind when he kissed my face off?
I don’t know why he kissed me.
But he definitely felt like he liked it, if the battering ram in his pants is anything to go by.
I shake my head a little to clear my thoughts.
Ares shakes off sand and yawns, watching us through his big, handsome, slightly gloomy brown eyes.
You’re right, boy, I tell him silently. This is bad. Catastrophic.
This mess is already complicated enough.
How bad will it be if I start catching real feelings?
Two days later, it still feels like a dream.
We’re home now, back in Portland, and I’m trying not to think about the fact that Ethan hasn’t called.
Not once to decompress from the strangest evening of my life.
Which is fine. Obviously.
It’s not like I’m expecting him to be clingy, and he has no obligation to check in for a daily update or whatever.
We’re fake engaged.
Everything we do together is for show.
That’s the only logical conclusion, and if certain knees start going weak and wibbly again at the mere thought of kissing him a second time—well, that’s just what good practice kisses do.
A lot of rom-coms with this silly plot say so.
So does my recent experience with one bad-tempered man.
At the time, I thought he liked it—or at least, he didn’t hate it—but the more time that passes with crickets from him, I’m starting to question everything.
Maybe he walked away in horror, thinking it was gross.
Maybe I’m such a bad kisser he never wants to look at me again.
Ugh!
After the kiss, we just went back inside his parents’ mansion and said our goodbyes after another hour of conversation.
On the plane, he got out his laptop and started working, barely looking up for the brief flight.
Meanwhile, I was stranded in my own mind. Alone and distraught while he behaved like The Kiss never happened.
Or maybe he quietly wished it never happened the whole way back.
Which makes me feel bonkers for having weak knees.
Is this a preview of what’s next?
I’ve offended him so bad with my rotten kissing technique that he never wants to see me again, and now we won’t meet until our wedding day.
That should not make me feel like I’ve swallowed a geode.
“Hattie,” Margot says, tying her hair into a messy bun on top of her head. She’s dressed in a baggy shirt and leggings, yet still looks effortlessly chic somehow.
Me? I’m in a white tee and jeans and covered in all the dust from the bookstore’s back room. Margot has some weird natural immunity to dust, magically repelling it.
“Margot,” I say, wiping my forehead.
Technically, the bookstore is closed until we figure out what happens next. Margot, bless her heart, volunteered to sift through all the inventory I’ve inherited.
Turns out, Mr. Sneed had a mountain of it in storage, years of acquisitions I didn’t even know about. Finding the gems worth selling is like searching one haystack after the next.
“You’re not listening.” She pouts at me.
There’s no point lying to her—and I’m a terrible liar anyway. “Sorry. I was just thinking…”
“About?”
I sigh.
“Meeting my parents?” she guesses.
“Yeah, that. I guess.”
“How was it? Ethan keeps freezing me out—typical annoying older brother stuff—but I’d like to know what happened. Don’t tell me you’ve taken a vow of silence too?”
I fight to keep the blush off my face.
“Nothing, Margot. Pretty boring day.”
For a long second, she stares at me. Then her eyebrows slowly lift.
“Come on, what was it? It’s my parents. What did they do?” She flicks her fingers dismissively. “At least you were dressed up. Did you mess up your hair? Oh God, did Mom say something?”
I wish.
My hair stayed perfect until Ethan kissed me.
I try not to shudder, remembering his fingers threading my hair, the way he brushed my skin, claiming and strong and delirious.
Holding me against him while he kissed me like I was his for one brief, reckless, totally awful fit of bad decisions.