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)
“We agreed we wouldn’t decide anything alone,” I say. Technically, that’s not a rule we’ve officially established, but I know it’s true.
Ethan is a control freak. He wouldn’t want me making any executive decisions without his approval.
But that’s okay when he gives me the same respect.
Mom bites into her fish wrap, disappointed.
“Well, fine. Although I must say I think he’s being very heavy-handed.”
“Heavy-handed? He just wants to make sure it’s a wedding we’re happy with.”
“Then I suppose there’s only one thing left to plan.”
I have a bad feeling about this.
She has a manic gleam in her eyes.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“It’s coming up fast, moving at the pace you are, but if you work hard and really push yourself, you could lose a few pounds in the time you have left. I simply want you to look your best.”
Ohhh God.
The worst part? The very worst?
She makes it sound like she’s throwing open the door on a great opportunity rather than slapping my face.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s what I did,” she explains, apparently blind to the fact her marriage didn’t last. “You’ve still got time, honey. You can do it. And tread lightly with desserts on your honeymoon or you’ll put all that weight back on.”
Freakout. Activated.
I’m standing up before I know what I’m doing.
The only thing I can feel is the ghost of Ethan’s hand on my leg, the way he whispered to me so many times how perfect I am, how beautiful, how he loves my body and he doesn’t need me to change.
The restaurant quiets as people turn to look at me.
My fists stay clenched in shaky little balls at my sides.
I’m wrestling with my temper.
I’ve never stood up to Mom and her pathological fixation on health and appearance before.
But this has to be the day.
“Hattie, sit down,” Mom pleads, her eyes shifting around, very aware we’re now the center of attention. That’s her all over, always worried what other people will think. “You’re making a scene,” she adds miserably.
“Yes. Because I’ve heard enough,” I tell her. “Enough shaming me into starving myself. I’m a grown woman. I make my own choices. I’m marrying a flipping billionaire hottie who wants me for me. Can’t you respect any of that?”
She stares at me, frowning, her fork clattering against her plate. “Hattie, please. You’re being rude!”
“Rude? No. That’s you, always pecking, refusing to leave me alone.”
Holy shit, my heart drums.
“You know I just want the best for you. I always have. And I want you to hang on to this wonderful man!”
Hang on.
Like one wrong move or one extra pound and he’ll be out the door.
The words sting, and they shouldn’t.
Deep down, I know this marriage isn’t real—I agreed to it—no matter how amazing it’s been lately.
Just like I know Ethan isn’t really marrying me for me.
He’s marrying me for money, to satisfy his grandfather’s wacko requirement, and six months down the line, we’ll amicably divorce.
I won’t leave empty-handed, of course.
Quite the opposite.
I’ve got my bookstore and my dreams served up on a silver platter.
And Ethan, he can walk away with his inheritance and whatever weird secrets he still won’t open up about even though we’d had some perfect moments.
Like whatever it was that drove him away when he was young.
Argh.
Every time I think this might be getting real, he shuts down.
He reminds me what this truly is.
And he makes it all too easy for Mom’s hamfisted remarks and judgments to shred my heart.
Sometimes, it feels like he’ll never fully trust me, even if we had to stick together six years rather than six months.
Sighing, I throw myself back in my chair, my knees suddenly weak.
“I don’t need you to look out for me anymore. Not like this,” I whisper.
She covers her hand with mine.
“Hattie, you’re taking this all wrong. I just can’t bear to see you heartbroken again, sweetie. You remember that boy in college? The one you couldn’t keep up with?”
“He was a huge dick, Mom. And a marathon runner.”
“Yes, but… you were really into him at the time. Jake, wasn’t it? And he just left you behind, and I don’t want that happening with Ethan. Hang on to that wonderful man.”
“It won’t,” I throw back, but the words are on autopilot.
I’m back to fuming about all the ways I’ll never match my fake husband.
The marathon runner was a boy.
A kid who only cared about how many times I hit the gym and how small my waist was. He secretly liked my figure, I think, but he always pretended otherwise.
He also hated that his strength was all in his legs, and he couldn’t throw me around like a delicate little flower.
He was a jerk and Margot was right—I wound up better off without him.
But Ethan is a billionaire. Or he will be soon.
He’s respected up and down the eastern seaboard for being a shrewd businessman in his own right. People know his name instantly and he’s wildly attractive.