Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“My father picked you for me eight years ago, and I find out now, and you want me to treat it like it means nothing.”
I slap the dashboard. “Well, he picked Portentia for you too, didn’t he? Do you still think that means something?”
I was wrong. Now his face is colder than I’ve ever seen it. “You’re right,” he rasps. “You should go inside. Nothing good can come of this conversation.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SAVVY
“Why the sad face, boo?” Stella asks, leaning in my bedroom doorway on Saturday afternoon.
I’m sitting at the small vanity at the foot of my bed, and when I study myself in the mirror, I know it’s going to take some heavy-duty concealer to hide the bags under my eyes. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” I grab my cosmetic bag and get to work.
“Hot dreams of a certain tall, dark, and handsome businessman?”
I scoff. Because she’s right—only not in the way she means. I dreamed of Oliver. Of his mouth on mine and his breath in my ear. I dreamed of us back in Crossport, making out on the couch in his loft, and I dreamed of him here in Orchid Valley, stripping me bare in the middle of Smithy’s bar while my friends looked on with judgment in their eyes.
“What about Alec?” Dream Brinley asked. “Alec has been nothing but good to you. His dad picked you for him!”
I woke up feeling anxious and more tired than I felt when I climbed into bed, but I pulled myself to the kitchen for coffee, mentally repeating my new mantra. One more day. One more day.
“Savvy, don’t stress,” Stella says. “You’re hot as fuck, and Alec isn’t going to be able to keep his hands off you. And once he sees what you’re wearing underneath . . .” She nods toward the black strapless bra peeking out from my dress and whistles low.
I shoot her a look and adjust the top, making a mental note to apply some garment tape before I go. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“You’re not even a little tempted to turn this fake dating ruse into the real thing?” Stella’s one of those people who’s almost always smiling and almost never serious, but the amusement falls away when she meets my gaze. “You know you can trust me if you ever want to talk about what this is all about, right?”
I could trust her. The problem is, I’ve spent so many years believing Oliver fooled me into everything that I never trusted anyone with the story. But after yesterday . . .
“I never stopped loving you.”
My stomach flips, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. “There’s nothing to talk about,” I tell Stella. “Alec is a nice guy, but we’re better off as friends.”
She hums, and the doorbell rings. “Expecting someone?”
I glance at my watch. “That’s probably the guy Rose was sending over to do my hair.”
“She’s sending you a personal hairdresser?”
I shrug. “Rich people thing, I guess. Would you let him in on your way out?”
“Sure.” She takes me by the shoulders and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You deserve happiness too,” she whispers, then she pulls away.
“Thanks, Stella.” I close my eyes and focus on my breathing as I listen to the click of her heels as she goes to the door.
“She’s in her room,” I hear Stella saying. “Down the hall. First door on the right.”
I grab the engagement ring from its spot inside my vanity and hurriedly slide it on. It’s not like the hairdresser is going to tell Rose that I wasn’t wearing it, but I don’t want to risk forgetting it.
The guy’s reply is a husky rumble so low I can hardly make it out, but it’s followed by the sound of the front door closing and heavy steps moving my way.
I take a deep breath and roll back my shoulders, then turn to the door to thank the stylist for coming, but all the words fizzle away when I see the man who haunted my dreams last night and so many nights before.
Oliver surveys me—from the hair I have piled in a sloppy bun on top of my head to the swell of my breasts, all the way down to where the short hem of the fitted dress grazes my thighs. His gaze is like a hot caress as it skates over my bare legs and takes the slow journey back up.
When he meets my eyes, he tucks his hands into his pockets. “And to think I once didn’t believe it was possible for you to be any more beautiful,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Time has proven me wrong.”
“What are you doing here?” It’s a marvel that I was able to get the words out when I don’t even feel attached to my body. I’m somewhere else—hovering between this moment and one eight years ago when I waited for him in an outfit not unlike this one. When I let him peel it off me, let him run his mouth over every inch of exposed skin, let him break me apart and then put me back together again.