Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
How is that possible?
Visual art isn't my expertise. I try to learn more, to understand brush strokes and styles, but it doesn't come naturally.
My parents always pushed me toward math and science. They wanted better for me than a career as a seamstress or a restaurant owner. I never did understand why that was such a terrible fate. Aunt Mai works long hours, but she loves her restaurant. And it's hers. She's always the one in charge.
But I didn't question them. Like a good Vietnamese daughter, I aced every class. Science was hard for me. Math too—though Shep helped. English though… that came naturally.
My parents praised my skill with language. I didn't seem like a first-generation girl. I spoke with the sort of vocabulary of a normal American girl. No, an intellectual, well-educated American girl.
I never asked if I could pursue a career in acting or writing. I knew it was out of the question.
Yes, I convinced them the school play was a good idea—it looked great on college applications and it helped with my fluency—but I knew it came second. After AP Chemistry and Algebra Two.
Now… I use my math skills every day. And my English ones. The acting comes in handy too. I know how to fake a smile.
For a while, I let myself believe it was possible. That I could participate in community productions once my career in statistics settled down. That I could write in my spare time. Or, at the very least, stay busy watching every play in town. The Bay doesn't have the best theater scene, but it is flush with avant-garde stuff. One-man shows. Burlesque. Drag.
Now…
I don't know what to think, honestly. Mr. Billings is an ass for firing me, but I'm sure every other executive in the industry will make the same decision.
If I want work, I need to move in a different direction.
Shep is providing me a place to live. He's paying for my father's care. That covers all my necessities. I don't need a job. But the idea of not working?
It's wrong to my very core.
My entire life, I've worked. I've studied. I've tried to achieve.
Am I supposed to spend the next year lying on his fancy leather couch, sipping oolong and eating cookies?
I'm sure it will be nice for a few days. A few weeks even. Then what?
I can't even imagine how I'd fill my days. The idea of free time is too foreign.
Time to relax, to focus on myself without Dad's treatment hanging over my head—
What would that feel like?
I don't know. I really don't.
The sound of footsteps calls my attention.
Shepard moves into the main room holding an antique silver tray. It's shiny, freshly polished. Real silver probably.
He sets it on the table. Removes a clean white teapot and two matching mugs. Then a small plate of scones and raspberry jam.
"Key tells me the flavor profiles are complementary." He motions to the thick red jam. "Something about the complexity of this blend of oolong and the mix of tart and sweet." Vulnerability bleeds into his voice.
"Key?"
"My chef. You could call her the household manager."
"Your staff is called Lock and Key?"
"They find it amusing." He pushes the plate toward me.
It matters to him, whether or not I accept his offer of tea and pastry. It matters to him, whether or not I like it. "Thank you." My stomach growls as I study the scones. They're dotted with little pieces of fruit. More berries.
He pulls out my chair.
I rest against the leather couch. I should sit. Accept his gift. It looks delicious and I'm starving. Honestly, all that talk of Ikea inspired a strong craving for lingonberry jam.
I'm sure the idea would horrify Shep as much as it horrifies Lock. I suppose it would horrify plenty of normal people.
Ikea doesn't exactly have a reputation for delicious food. More amazingly cheap.
Shep normal. It's a funny thought.
How long has it been since the term fit him?
"Jasmine?" He lifts the pot and pours amber liquid into one cup. Then another.
Damn, it smells good. Still, my legs stay pressed against the leather couch. I can't give in yet. I just can't.
Then his tone shifts to that low, deep one. "Sit," he commands.
My legs move on their own. Before I know it, I'm in the chair, my hands folded in my lap, my thighs shaking. Say something like that again. Right now. Please. Only make it much, much dirtier.
My hands steady as I pick up my mug. This is tea and scones. Nothing more. It doesn't mean I appreciate him trying to buy me.
"Thank you." I take a long sip of the oolong. It's good. Floral and sweet. A tiny bit astringent.
"You're welcome." His eyes fix on mine. "It's not perfect."
"It's fine."
"So, it's not perfect."
"A little over-steeped." I swallow another sip. The astringent note is more noticeable the second time. Tea is one of my few breaks. Ten minutes of time that's all mine. Ten minutes to brew a delicious beverage, soak in its warmth, let the comfort fill my belly.