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)
“Did she explain?”
When Ethan looks up, his eyes are frigid, blue sky turned into a field of ice.
“No, and I couldn’t begin to guess. Don’t know why she dialed it up to eleven and went off on Gramps like that. Maybe a delayed grief reaction or something. She hasn’t had one since he died. They were always estranged, but this seems odd.”
Oh, secrets.
He’s steeped in them, and finding out the people he’s closest to have plenty more probably doesn’t sit well. Who can blame him?
I might’ve chosen this fake marriage, but I’d never choose to be born a Blackthorn.
“That’s intense.” I take another bite of my food, beginning to truly enjoy it. “I never would’ve thought some old letter would be such a big deal.”
“Never.” Ethan’s frown deepens.
“Did you and Margot talk? Do you guys have any theories? Like, anything you know about your mom and grandfather that might explain it?”
Ethan’s fingers tighten around his knife before they relax.
“No, Hattie. It’s not like Mom ever came clean with either of us about her history. With Gramps, she kept her comments brief. Sometimes she’d get irritated or leave the room if she ever mentioned him at all. Honestly, Margot wouldn’t know where to begin any more than I do. And even if we did, this is family bullshit. You don’t need to get too deep in the weeds.”
Hurt hits me like a blow to the chest.
“You wouldn’t tell me if you knew?” I say flatly. “Because I’m not family?”
“Because it isn’t worth your time and grief. Also, yes. We need to keep it in the family.”
Ouch.
It shouldn’t feel like a bruising kick, but it does.
“So, what? You’re saying I can’t keep a secret? I can’t handle the big scary inner secrets of the Blackthorns?”
That cold blue gaze intensifies.
There’s no sign of the Ethan I know in this stranger, who’s so deep inside his own head he’s iced over.
“Did I say that?” he snaps.
“It’s what you implied,” I whisper, putting down my knife and fork. My hands are on the verge of shaking. “But you can tell me personal stuff, Ethan. I’d never tell anyone.”
“Does Margot count as anyone?” The acid bite in his voice flays my already raw nerves.
“Margot—what? I never told her anything.” I’m so confused. “I mean, I might’ve asked her a few indirect questions about your dating history. But that has absolutely nothing to do with—you know.”
“Yes, I do know,” he snarls back. “She told me.”
Crap.
Classic Margot, never able to keep her nose out of things. Then again, she probably had no clue this was such a sensitive subject for Ethan.
I had no idea.
Taylor, yes, but everything else…
“I’m sorry if it bothered you.” I try to keep the words steady. “I just wanted to know you better, to understand—”
“Understand what? I told you fucking everything,” he clips. In his anger, Ethan’s voice sharpens. People from nearby tables watch us, though I don’t think they can hear the discussion. But I don’t dare tell him to keep quiet.
I swallow around the rock in my throat.
“I know, but—”
The way he leans forward stops me in my tracks.
“I told you I got a woman killed. Isn’t that enough, Hattie? What else do you need?”
Silence.
And that’s right when our annoyingly attentive waiter pops up from behind me and asks if everything’s lovely, the dessert menu in his hands.
“Give us a minute.” Ethan waves him off, still glaring at me.
All the tension that’s been simmering under the surface braises the air between us now, and my throat goes so tight.
I can’t cry.
Not here.
Not now.
“Why isn’t that enough?” he demands, quieter now. “Why do you need my whole goddamned life story?”
“For… for me.” My words feel like mud, thick and disgusting. My eyes burn from holding back the tears. “So I can understand what sort of women you dated and dumped before, and so I can—” I’m choking, shaking my head.
Believe me, I know confessing my real motives—searching for a snowball’s chance in hell of being with him for real—would be like opening my chest for an Aztec sacrifice.
His frown changes from broody mad to just uncertain, wary.
“Pages—”
“Just forget it.” I toss down my napkin as I stand.
“Fuck, wait,” he mutters under his breath as I storm through the restaurant, unable to see through the blurry veil of tears.
I need air. I have to get outside.
Should’ve worn waterproof mascara, too.
More importantly, I should’ve known fairy tales don’t come true.
Everything was going too well before I opened my fat mouth.
I clatter through the door into the warm summer evening, pressing a hand to my unsettled stomach.
Breathe.
Not as easy as it sounds.
My body seizes up like I have invisible ropes wrapped around me tight. Leaning against the wall, I try to remember how my lungs work.
Every breath is suffering.
Even though the cynical part of my brain insists this was bound to happen, I can’t believe how everything fell apart so quickly.