Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“Good,” he said.
“Great.” I flipped my hair over my shoulder.
We glared at each other, but there was a small understanding that I’m not coddling Loren. He’s more upset when I try, and after the assault and kidnapping (don’t even get me started—murder seems too pleasant for those disgusting, vile pigs) I’m doing my best to remind myself he’s not fragile. That I need to come at him with a fucking sword and not a butter knife—but I just hope he’s not looking to be cut.
I played rock-paper-scissors with Daisy for the next best room, and I pride myself on having a great win-to-loss ratio for that particular game. I’m even better than Connor, but Daisy went away from her usual strategy of always choosing rock.
And I lost.
This room is only good for the views of the lake. The shower is tiny, and we need to replace the outdated vanity lights. We plan to hire a contractor to do some small repairs and renovations before the summer. It’s always better to have it happen at once so a million people aren’t learning the location of the house.
This is our one solitude from paparazzi, and that’s never changing. I will personally stab the person who breaks their NDA and ruins this for me and my family.
I finish combing my hair and place the brush in a bathroom drawer. “You didn’t hear the phone notification either?” I ask my husband beside me.
Connor brushes his teeth without a care in the world, which simultaneously aggravates every bone in my body and attempts to douse my simmering hostility.
He angles closer to me, just to spit in the only sink. “No one did,” he says like he can’t be held accountable for his mortal hearing.
“You’re coming to that conclusion on what grounds?” I cross my arms, and my silk black robe tightens against my body.
Connor’s eyes flit to my hips, then ascend slowly up to my eyes. The brief once-over is as commonplace as spring pollen, and yet, it still heats my skin.
He arches a brow. “From experience, darling. If someone heard it and saw the video, they would’ve called us.”
“Wrong,” I tell him. “There are a handful that would’ve simply brushed it off as our son’s nature to be traipsing outside in the middle of the night like a mischievous sprite.” I hear the iciness of my voice.
Connor leans against the bathroom counter, providing me with his full attention. “Are you more concerned about sleeping through the notification or about what our son was up to last night?”
I scowl. “I can multi-task, Richard. I hold it in my heart to be concerned about both. Seeing as how you’re concerned about neither.” I hate my words as soon as they breech the air, but I can’t take them back.
Strain protrudes my collarbone, and a knot forms in my ribs. The first thing Connor did when he saw the video was jump out of bed and check on our son.
Eliot Alice Cobalt. He might be twenty-one now, but he’s still the son who will crash a car, walk away like it’d been intended—like it’s all part of some master plan, and then he’ll sleep in misery. Broken bones, bruised soul—he's the son who won’t tell me when he’s truly hurt. He’ll laugh like pain can’t touch him. It’s just an adversary he’s made friends with.
And while admirable, as his mom I want to know when he’s suffering. I want to take away his pain, however I can.
So Connor needed to have eyes on Eliot. To ensure he was breathing and not hypothermic. He did that without me prompting. He came back and assured Eliot was okay and sound asleep.
Of course Connor cares about our children.
But maybe I care too much.
Maybe my care has ballooned enough for the both of us and is absorbing the very air we’re breathing. Is that why I feel so undone?
Connor opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off, “You care. I don’t know why I said that.”
His blue eyes soften on me. “You’re worried. I don’t hold that against you, Rose.”
“I hold it against myself,” I say coldly. “My worry shouldn’t cause me to say cruel, needless things, and I would really like to filter my thoughts.”
He winces like that’s the worst insult he’s heard all morning. “Don’t. Ever,” he tells me. “I want you unfiltered, darling.”
“Even if my words stab you in the heart?”
“Especially then.” He looks me over. “Where does your excess worry come from?” He frames the question like we’re a team about to unearth these mysteries together.
I comb my fingers through my hair and tie the strands into a pony. “Eliot is up to something,” I say, more to the mirror.
“He’s always up to something. And he’s our child that yells fire to test whether we’ll jump up and run to him.”