Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 32533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
When I turn away from her, I half expect her to call after me, but she doesn’t.
And as I climb the stairs to my room, I can’t tell if it’s relief or regret that makes my throat tighten and my vision blurry.
CHAPTER 8
EDEN
Two weeks later…
The scent of pine fills the room as I string red and white lights around the fir tree.
“Oh, now that’s just lovely, Eden,” Mom says from her spot on the couch.
I turn to her and smile. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
“Not at all. It’s absolutely perfect.”
Beaming, I finish wrapping the lights and then pick up a couple of glass-ball ornaments. Mom and I have spent the day decorating. Well, I’ve spent the day decorating, with Mom mostly keeping me company from the couch. She was able to help a little bit this morning, but she tired quickly, so I told her to rest.
Decorating for Christmas is one of my most treasured childhood memories. When I was little, our trees resembled something closer to the Charlie Brown twig rather than the monster at Rockefeller Center, but I loved them all regardless.
This year, we had a big, beautiful tree delivered to Christian’s apartment—thanks to the expense account he set up for us. Mom and I may have gone a little overboard with the lights, ornaments, and other holiday decorations we found online, but since this is the first Christmas without my dad around, I wanted to make it special for my mom.
I hang glass balls, wooden reindeer, and festive ribbon around the tree while Mom hums along to the holiday music streaming on Christian’s surround sound system. It’s been two weeks since Christian touched me and made me come in the kitchen. In his absence, I’ve had time to think about everything we’ve done together, and everything he said to me that night.
At first, I didn’t know what to think when he said it was his fault my dad was dead. I stayed awake for hours after he left for the airport, my mind reeling as I tried to wrap my head around his words. I decided to ask my mom for more details about what happened back then—without mentioning Christian’s recent statements.
From what I could puzzle together, it seems that Christian blames himself for not helping my dad out all those years ago. While it’s true that we may have been more comfortable in the short-term if he had given my dad money, it’s also possible he would have squandered it. There’s no way to know how things might have turned out otherwise. All I know is that I don’t blame Christian for my difficult childhood or my father’s death.
“Come sit down with me,” my mom says, pulling me from my thoughts. “You’ve been working all afternoon. You should take a moment to enjoy your efforts.”
I find a spot for the ornament in my hand and then join my mother on the couch.
The Christmas tree gleams and sparkles. Resting my head on Mom’s shoulder, I let my gaze roam lazily over the boughs.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Do you think Christian will like it?”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t. If he doesn’t like it, you have my blessing to call him a Scrooge.”
I laugh. Glancing at the grandfather clock beside the antique bookcase, my foot taps anxiously against the side of the couch. Christian promised me he’d be home before Christmas. With each passing day, I become more worried that he’s going to change his mind about us.
These past two weeks without him have been torturous. It’s like he’s left a hole in my chest where my heart should be. I miss him most at night when I have nothing else to distract myself, when memory and fantasy collide. I imagine him kissing me awake with a hand between my legs, as he whispers filthy, delicious things against my lips.
I know I should temper my fantasies. The Christian in my head isn’t the man who married my mother, and it crushes my heart a little more each day when he doesn’t walk through the front door. I don’t know when he’ll be back—if he’ll be back. And the more space he takes up in my head, the more painful his absence feels.
The only contact we’ve had with him is through his personal assistant, who calls my mom every day to check in and make sure we have everything we need. Mom says she’s nice. Still, I don’t want to raise any alarms by repeatedly asking her when he plans to return. So I keep my worries to myself and hope that, this time, he’ll keep his promises.
Mom is helping me choose between red and gold stockings for the mantel when I hear the private elevator ding in the foyer.
My heart jumps into my throat. I smooth down the front of my shirt and run my fingers through my hair, my pulse sprinting like a rabbit. My lips curve into a smile that I couldn’t suppress even if I wanted to.