Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Is that why you were upset at the Hamptons? That’s what you couldn’t tell me?”
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m so confused. Gavin, what is going on?”
He sighed and pulled me in closer. “Maggie and Locke are arranged. Our families set it up, but as far as I knew, it was a real marriage still. I certainly didn’t think Locke would approve of her sleeping with Micah.” He brushed a stray lock of my rainbow hair out of my face. “Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve been dealing with this all alone?”
“She begged me not to tell you. But why didn’t you tell me about the arranged part?”
“Just the family knows. And I suppose, now, you should know since you’ll be family soon.” His smile returned at that.
“Yes. Your mom and aunt seem smitten with that idea.”
“They’re not the only ones,” he said, tilting my chin up to look into his eyes. “I’m quite fond of you myself.”
“Oh, are you?” I asked with a grin.
“Indeed.”
And seeing him look at me like that sent shivers straight down my spine. I was his. Completely and unequivocally. In that moment, not a single thing about this was fake.
“Gavin,” I said hesitantly, “I don’t want us to be like Maggie and Locke.”
His thumb tracked against my bottom lip. “And what do you want?”
“I want it to be real,” I whispered.
His lips brushed against mine as he breathed the truth into me. “It is real.”
26
GAVIN
The time with my family ended too soon. As we got back on the private jet to fly into Dallas to spend the holiday weekend with Whitley’s family, I could feel her anxiety increase with every traveled mile.
“Maybe we should have celebrated the Fourth of July with your family,” she muttered as we landed on a private airfield in south Dallas.
“But your brother invited you personally.”
“I know.” Her eyes darted around, as if she expected her family to jump out of the bushes to embarrass her. “Just … try to keep an open mind. My family isn’t like … your family.”
I grabbed her around the middle before we got to the awaiting car and kissed her deeply.
She laughed as she drew back. “What was that for?”
“To remind you that I’m right here. I’m not going to be scared off, Whit. It’s going to be fine.”
“You say that now,” she said with an eye roll and then opened the car door.
Nothing I said the entire drive to her family’s home in Dalworthington Gardens could ease her mind. She was practically bouncing in her seat by the time we were in the city.
“Are those … cows?” I asked in surprise. “Aren’t we within city limits?”
“Yes. Dalworthington Gardens was started as a farming center by the federal subsistence homestead program in the ’30s. It’s the only active colony still in existence, and as long as the land is in continuous usage, we can still use it for livestock,” she said, as if reading from a brochure of the town. “My family was one of the first settlers, and we’ve had the use of the land ever since.”
“Fancy.”
She snorted. “Hardly. It’s just a quirk of my heritage that my family is really proud of.” She shrugged as her gaze swept across the land, seeing more than the suburbs and farmland in her history.
I, however, craned my neck to look at the place that had created yet clearly not contained my little spitfire. Then, my eyes rounded. “Does that say Bowen Street?”
She sighed heavily. “Uh, yeah. That’s named after my family.”
“The Kings don’t have a street in Midland.” My grin widened. “You’re way fancier than us, Whitley Bowen.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Lord help us.”
The car turned off Bowen and onto a paved lane, lined with giant oak trees. It was like something out of a movie. The house at the end of the lane was modest and well cared for. The grass was manicured, the trees immaculate, and everything about it said that someone had put a lot of love and care into the surroundings. I appreciated that.
Though I could see how a place like this would be suffocating for someone like Whitley.
We piled our luggage onto the walk as her mom opened the front door and rushed down the steps.
“You made it,” she said cheerfully.
“We made it,” Whitley confirmed.
“Walter is just inside. Can I help with the bags?” Cynthia asked.
“I have them,” I assured her.
She beamed at me as if I was everything she could have ever wanted in a son-in-law. It was slightly unfair that I’d done nothing to earn that praise, except an accident of birth, but it could be worse.
Cynthia put her arm around her daughter and whisked her toward the house. Whitley looked back at me once in alarm, but I waved her off.
“I’m right behind you.”
She looked relieved and followed her mom inside. I carried both of our suitcases up the stairs and into Whitley’s childhood home. It had been updated recently with modern finishings, but it couldn’t mask that the house had been built decades ago. I dropped the bags in the front room, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the mantel, where dozens of picture frames were filled.