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?” My voice is thick with sleep. “Is that you?”
He doesn’t say anything, just turns and heads down the hall.
Swallowing, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and follow, aware that the temperature has dropped and I’m wearing nothing but skimpy pj’s.
He wasn’t supposed to be home tonight.
Weird scenarios start flashing through my mind.
He’s here to apologize—but that doesn’t make sense because he would have said something.
That means something’s wrong. But what?
There’s no other reason why he’d be back so soon.
Unless unexpected business came up with Blackthorn Holdings?
But that still doesn’t quite make sense. The Portland office is small. If there was a major issue, he’d probably hunker down in New York and fight it out.
I find him at the bar downstairs, tossing back a glass of bourbon and pouring himself another a second later.
He doesn’t look up when I stop a few feet away from him.
“Ethan?” I reach for the bottle, but he drags it back jealously. “What’s going on?”
“Go back to bed, Hattie. Everything’s fine.”
He can see I wasn’t in bed.
Surely, he knows I’m not sleeping well, and maybe I’m not in the mood to just go to bed and let things go.
“Not fine. You came home early and you’re drinking like a fish, so what is it?” I try to keep my voice calm.
Inside, I want to scream and shake him. I want him to go back to the man he was when we were together and before he ripped me to pieces at the French place.
He doesn’t answer.
He just pours himself a few more fingers and throws them back in one gulp.
Holy hell.
By my count, he’s on his third or maybe fourth drink in just as many minutes.
“I need some time alone. Leave,” he says.
“Only after you tell me what’s going on.”
Raw anger flares in his eyes, jolting me to the core because I’ve never seen this look before. Not even when we were fighting at the restaurant.
“Do you still have ears? I said leave me the fuck alone, Pages.” He enunciates every word, slowly and brutally.
“Don’t swear at me.” I try to snatch the bottle again and succeed at hauling it out of his limp grasp. “I’m not leaving you like this and I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what has you acting crazy.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
“So tell me!”
His eyes are dark and dangerous, glazed from the alcohol flooding his system.
It’ll take a second before it hits his bloodstream full force, but I guess he’s feeling it already.
The old Hattie inside me shrinks at seeing him like this. But I’m not about to give up on him that easily, so I clutch the bottle to my chest.
“Don’t do this.” My voice shakes, but I refuse to let that stop me. “Don’t let your anger win.”
“Did your mom teach you that one? Sounds like her.” He snorts loudly.
“Don’t make this about my mom.”
“Then don’t lecture me.” His blue eyes sharpen. “What would you know about dealing with anything?”
“Working in a bookstore makes you pretty immune to giant assholes. And you’re being one right now.”
He grabs for the bottle, ripping it from my hands.
But we both fumble and it falls to the floor.
Although I know it’s impossible, it feels like time stops as I watch it fall, waiting for the inevitable mess.
Of course, it shatters.
Bourbon spills everywhere, splattering the floor.
A piece of glass grazes my toe and I jump back.
“Shit!”
He stares at the mess, bewildered, his brow furrowed and his mouth a flat, hard line.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
“We’ll clean it up,” I say.
“For fuck’s sake, Hattie, stop trying to fix everything. I’ve got it. Go back to bed or the couch or wherever the hell you’re sleeping.”
Definitely not in your bed, I think sourly.
Biting back the comment, I grab some towels from the bar and throw them on the floor as I start collecting shards of glass.
“It’s fine,” I say, though to him or myself I don’t know. “It’s fine. We’ll have this cleared up in no time.”
“You don’t listen. And you’ve got bare feet.” Ethan eyes me coldly as he picks me up and puts me on the counter, keeping my feet clear from the floor. “Stay and don’t move.”
Before I can protest, he’s bending down again, picking up the glass and depositing it in a small empty tin.
When he straightens up, we’re silent, staring at the paper towels soaking up the brown liquid.
My feet are damp. I think there’s a bruise or small cut blossoming on my foot.
It doesn’t feel a fraction as bad as my heart.
“Ethan,” I whisper. “I know we’ve had it rough lately. We’ve made mistakes, and—and I’m sure you’re hurting. But whatever it is, this isn’t healthy.”
He looks at me and laughs harshly as he pulls out another unopened bottle to resume his self-destruct sequence.
My heart sinks.
“Ethan…”
“Hattie, enough.” His hands shake as he pours himself another glass.