Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“But are you?”
“Of course.” His walking slows. “Yes, I’m—Of course I am.”
“Just asking.”
He puts on a smile and tilts his head my way. “Guess I’m not used to … being asked if I’m happy.” He looks ahead.
I already figured as much.
This whole town feeds on his kindness. No one checks in. No one stands over him to tell off the vultures.
It pisses me off.
“You okay?” he asks.
I’ve tightened up my jaw. “Guess I know a thing or two about moms running off, leaving their son to clean up the mess.”
He frowns at me. “What do you mean?”
Next second, I’m furious I let that out. “Nothing.” I look away.
“Your mom?”
“Said never mind.”
He doesn’t question it further.
After a little longer of walking, I let myself look at him again, studying the side of his face. Even when Wyatt’s serious, there’s this totally calm sexiness about him. I’d put money down there’s more fight in this guy than he lets on.
More fight than anyone in this whole town even knows.
Then he stops. “Okay, I have no idea where the bathroom is.”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”
“I feel like we might’ve passed one coming in …?”
I look around, not even having paid attention to where we’ve been walking. “You’ve been in this place how many times? Didn’t these rich people throw a Fourth of July thing here last month?”
He shrugs, then says, “Fun fact, it’s usually the Strongs’ who host all of the big events, but I think Mayor Nadine’s let go of the reins a bit, and Miss Cassie has this big ol’ house, and—You didn’t ask for the whole story,” he suddenly realizes, shutting himself up, then pointing at a random hall. “I vote that way.”
“Are we about to get lost in this place?”
“Aren’t we already?” He goes ahead of me.
I follow again, hands in my pockets.
We wander past rooms bigger than the house I’m staying in. A library with ladders. Some kind of music room. A sitting room I’m pretty sure no one ever actually sits in, from how clean it looks.
“How many random-ass rooms do rich people need?” I catch myself mumbling.
“I am happy in life, by the way.” He sighs. “I’m surrounded by what I love. My plants and flowers. I suspect they love me back. It’s like having hundreds of lovers all at once, and they show me love with their fragrance and their bold and colorful beauty.”
“Sounds fucking lonely.”
He stops at the door to another room and frowns back at me. “Speak for yourself, Mr. Won’t-Come-To-My-Movie-Nights.”
We stand at the doorway together.
There’s a fireplace at the other side.
A wall of windows. Curtains.
Big beautiful rug.
“This room is just for dramatically standing in place during a thunderstorm,” he announces grandly, like a tour guide.
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself.
He peers over his shoulder at me. “Did you just—?”
My face is already flat again. “Nah.”
“I just made you laugh.”
“Are we even looking for a bathroom anymore?”
“Did we ever have to pee? Or was it an excuse to get away?” He walks across the room to the windows and peers through the curtains. “We probably walked right past all of them.”
“Dunno. Wasn’t looking.”
He turns from the windows. “You weren’t?”
I shrug.
His eyes are on me for a while. Then he squints. “What were you looking at, then?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
It’s like I actually don’t know for a minute.
I wasn’t looking at the fountain outside. Or the big-ass stage and its lame, uninspired flowerpots at the front of it.
Wasn’t really looking for a bathroom, either, clearly.
Somewhere between getting up from the table and wandering into this giant rich-person museum, I stopped paying attention to everything else.
“What?” says Wyatt, like he’s still waiting for an answer.
I look at him. Really look at him.
The cute, almost stern way his eyebrows lift while he waits.
How the jacket fits him better than anything has a right to.
The knot of his tie, slightly loose, maybe out of nervousness, or because he felt hot and tugged at it absently.
That curl that keeps falling onto his forehead no matter how many times he brushes it off.
What the hell have I been looking at?
“You.”
Then I freeze.
I’m not sure who said that. It didn’t feel like me. But it wasn’t Wyatt. And we’re the only two people in this room.
There was a trace of a smile on his face a second ago.
It’s gone now.
“Me …?” He’s breathing a bit deeper now. Belatedly brings a hand to his chest, as if asking “Me?” again without his voice.
Well, there’s no taking it back now.
I shrug, then say, “Yep,” as my fingers clench in my pockets.
He drops his hand. For half a breath, he literally looks like he’s devising an escape plan. Then he lets out a short laugh, goes quiet again, and starts rubbing the back of his neck.