Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Goddamn, what is happening?
Five minutes ago, I was carrying the weight of the world—a reluctant Atlas bowing under its pressure.
And now?
I find myself chuckling as I pick up my fork.
“Yeah, let’s enjoy,” I say.
I actually might.
Just like I might enjoy someone else’s company for the first time in ages.
XI
CHASING THE STORM
(ELLE)
My head is way too full right now.
How did a dinner date turn into such a night?
It wasn’t even a real date!
But somehow it turned into—something.
Something that felt real.
That felt like I was getting to see the real August.
It started even before we got to the restaurant. The way he was so worried about my health, the gentle way he spoke to me. The way he stepped in to order for me so I wouldn’t feel out of my depth, and actually cared enough to worry about my nutritional needs and notice my taste preferences.
I’ve never had a man pay attention to me like August does.
What does it say about the guys I’ve dated before that my fake fiancé cares more than my real past boyfriends ever did?
There’s been something almost lost about August all night, a guilt clearly weighing on him—but it came out sharply when I met Marissa Sullivan.
She wasn’t what I’d expected.
I thought she’d be a sharp battle-axe of a businesswoman. Not this sleek former model who wears red better than I ever could in my dreams. Seeing her like that, drunk and trying to drown something that was weighing on her—
It hurt.
I couldn’t blame August for wanting to help, despite the fact that she’s made him her mortal enemy.
I was actually glad to let them go without me.
It gave me a few minutes to compose myself.
Otherwise, I might’ve said something really dumb that would have completely ruined the vibe between August and me.
God, I want him so much.
I want him to be mine so I can hold him, run my fingers through his hair, comfort him, tell him I’d be there for him through anything that was hurting him.
Stupid?
Yes.
How did I fall for a man like this? The one man I absolutely shouldn’t?
It’s so bad it hurts to be near him.
Hurts because he’s gravity, and I’m trying so hard to stay in place. It takes all my strength to resist the force of his pull on every part of me.
I’m not good at impulse control—or resisting temptations with blue eyes that reach down to my soul.
If there’s ice cream in the fridge, I’m going to eat it for dinner, because I’m an adult and I can do what I want.
But August is the ice cream I can’t have.
Not even the tiniest taste, when every minute I look at him I just want to scarf him right up in so many wicked ways it steals my breath away and leaves my heart thrumming.
Just once.
Just flipping once, I’d like to taste him.
The story of his ex-wife shattered me.
The pain August has been carrying for so long.
The guilt, the shame, the betrayal he must have felt when she turned to a cult rather than an imperfect husband who still cared as a human being and who still wanted to solve their impossible problems. Even when she tried to extort from him instead of being honest that she just wanted his love.
Holy hell.
No wonder he’s so dark all the time. So heavy.
He’s a far more complicated man than I realized.
I just wish I could kiss away the pain he’s engraved so deeply in himself it might never rub away.
I couldn’t say any of that.
I couldn’t hold back my tears, either, but I could at least try to listen, to support him, to tell him he’s not the monster he thinks he is or the monster others have painted him as.
I’m so glad I kept my promise, now.
And I’m glad I heard August’s story from his own lips before I heard it through someone else’s warped need for slimy gossip.
Settling back into normal after that felt like a farce, but it felt nice too.
August offering me a bite of his foie gras and me recoiling when I found out what foie gras actually is.
He teased me with it like a little boy threatening to put a frog down a little girl’s dress, menacing me with the forkful and smirking when I squeaked and tossed my head away.
He was too happy to steal a few of my truffle fries when I offered, though, nipping them right out of my fingers.
Even if tonight was a lot, he’s more relaxed, too, since getting that secret off his chest.
I like that he can be that way with me.
That I can tease him and he’ll tease me right back, and tell me what a brat I’m being when I pout and insist on dessert even though we’re both stuffed.
A slightly tipsy brat, too, if I’m being honest.