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)
“Ethan, what letter?”
“One Gramps wrote you years ago?” I shake my head. “It turned up stuffed in the old pirate ship. Had an envelope with it, like you read it and sent it back to him.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Mom almost sobs the word. “Why can nothing with my father just stay buried? Do we have to jettison his ashes into the sun, too?”
“Mom—” Margot starts.
“Didn’t he do enough when he drove Ethan away and almost got him killed overseas?” Mom demands, angrily twisting her water bottle in her hand, fury vibrating through her. “Does he have to ruin this too? We’ve only just gotten you back!”
I keep staring long after she storms away, bewildered.
Goddammit, what is wrong with this family?
Margot chews her bottom lip, her expression pensive.
“Okay, now we have to know. Whatever this is, it’s big.”
I almost don’t care.
The secrets, the constant tensions, the boiling grudges, it gets tiresome.
Even here, it’s like the walls are drenched with them. Gramps might be dead and gone, but his ghost isn’t.
I catch Margot’s arm as she starts to leave the room.
“Hey!” She smacks my hand like a kitten.
“Hold up. Don’t push her. You won’t get anything useful out of Mom right now.”
“Ethan, I’m not stupid. I know,” she says scornfully, wrenching her arm free. “I’m not going to ask her again. No one wants another meltdown. I’ll try Dad later.”
The last of my drink hits the back of my throat, so potent I almost gag.
What the fuck ever.
If Margot wants answers to glaring mysteries that might be better off buried, she can knock herself out.
19
ALL AT ONCE (HATTIE)
Ismooth down the skirt of my dress.
We’re going out to a lovely French restaurant tonight—one of the best on this side of the Atlantic—and I’ve decided sleek and elegant white was the right choice for today.
You know it’s great food when you’re willing to risk a catastrophic stain.
“Good day with your dusty books?” Ethan asks as we pull out of the driveway.
“Amazing! It felt like one long maze of surprises. Good thing I set the reminder on my phone to head back or I’d still be there.” I can’t hide my enthusiasm and I love that he doesn’t ask me to.
This Ethan doesn’t laugh at me for geeking out, he just teases. He doesn’t look down on me because my heart and soul are bound to reading, and reading forever.
It’s refreshing to be with a man who accepts me for who I am instead of cruelly brushing off my ‘unserious’ obsession.
He also doesn’t look down on me because I don’t have a master’s degree in upper class etiquette like most of the women he’s been with.
For now, I’ve decided to stop looking at the past.
Stop searching for reasons why this has to end painfully.
Today we’re together and we’re smiling and we’re good.
Why ruin that by dwelling on tomorrow?
“Thrilling, Pages. Abandoning your fiancé for fictional characters. How can I ever compete?” he teases, though there’s something a bit distant in his voice.
“Well, I’m not sure any human man can measure up to a vintage set of Jane Austens.”
“Did you buy them?”
“No. They were way expensive, even if they could sell pretty fast at the store after we reopen,” I admit sadly. They were beautiful, and still in their original bindings, but even with all the money Ethan pays me to marry him, I can’t justify cutting that deep into my own savings. “They were just too expensive.”
He frowns, giving me the side-eye.
“Hattie, don’t you know who you’re talking to?”
“If you’d loaned me your credit card…” I don’t finish that thought.
I just grin at him, but even though he smiles back, it doesn’t touch his eyes.
And when we’re stuck in thick city traffic, his hand doesn’t drift over to my thigh.
The rest of the drive feels oddly silent.
Ethan isn’t a blabbermouth, of course, but we’ve settled into this cute routine lately where we ask each other about our days and he teases me to death.
It usually ends in kissing. Lots of groping, if I’m lucky.
At the very least, smoldering eye contact and a smile that makes my heart combust.
Although I’m respecting his quiet today, I’m a little surprised his mood continues once we reach the restaurant.
Not even a smile.
It’s like we’ve taken a step back to when he was Scowly McScowlface and he didn’t want to spend a second with me longer than whatever this obligation calls for.
Weird.
The way his eyes lingered on my chest when I came out of the bedroom earlier suggests he has some interest in being here with me tonight.
Why doesn’t that give me the usual warm glow?
Obviously, I want Ethan to want me—and he does.
Incessantly.
But I don’t want him to just want me for my body and the gravity-defying sex.
I want more.
I want him to want to open up like he did when he spilled his guts in all their bloody, sad glory.