Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
My stomach tightened. I wished I’d found a way to call Fletcher from the motel. I could have said I had to check on something in the lobby and done it there. He was expecting me to call this weekend. I’d put him off with claims of being busy with the documentary, but that I’d have something good for him next time I called. I’d put off calling him in part because I hadn’t thought of anything to tell him.
Julian had unplugged the coffee maker from the wall and was shaking it upside down over the sink. I stared at the pot sitting on the counter without seeing it. How had I gotten myself into this mess? Why had I ever told Fletcher I would go along with this harebrained scheme, and how had it gotten so complicated? Could I just tell him I had changed my mind? That I couldn’t find anything on Julian? For a minute, the idea brought so much relief that I felt myself relax back into the chair. It didn’t last long, though. If I didn’t have anything to give him, Fletcher might insist that I quit the documentary. He couldn’t make me, of course, but he had leverage. I’d only gotten the interview because of his falsified resume and references. I had no doubt my father wouldn’t hesitate to pull the rug out from under me, even if it exposed him in the process.
I had more to lose.
Julian righted the coffee maker again and jammed the plug back in the outlet, still muttering under his breath. He began filling the reservoir with a cup now, going slowly and carefully, pausing to make sure the water wasn’t getting stopped up anywhere. He looked pissed, his forehead wrinkled with concentration, his jaw set like he was in a life and death battle with this kitchen appliance. He looked ridiculous, but also ridiculously good. Not just handsome, but something more than that. He was innately good in a way that went deeper than his golden tan, perfect body, and piercing eyes.
I cared about him.
Maybe I even loved him.
The thought was so clear and powerful that I had to look away, afraid it would beam from my forehead into his. God, I had so much more to lose if Julian ever found out who I really was. What I was supposed to be doing. Would he believe that I’d never planned to do it at all? I wouldn’t, in his position. I’d hate me. The thought curdled in my stomach like bad milk, and a chill that had nothing to do with the weather worked its way down to my bones.
Julian didn’t notice any of this. Finally satisfied with the amount of water he’d poured in, he settled the coffee filter into the basin and heaped in the grounds. “Here goes nothing,” he said, more to himself than to me, and pressed the Brew button.
The machine hissed, gurgled, and growled to life, sounding more like an animal he was raising from the dead than a coffee maker. Julian’s lips were moving. I couldn’t hear him, but I could imagine his voice in my head. Come on, come on. Then, in reluctant, spitting surrender, dark brown liquid began squirting into the pot, filling it as fast as the snowdrifts had filled the windows.
“Fuck yeah,” Julian said, and turned to me with a grin. I did my best to grin back, but he wasn’t fooled. His smile faded, and he came over to put his hands down on the arms of my chair. “Hey, don’t worry, Laurier. I’ll get you out of here on time, okay? Remember, I learned to drive in Aspen. This is nothing.”
Just having him near me drove out the worst of the fear and cold. I leaned forward in the comforting cafe of his arms, wanting to bask in his glow and goodness. “Oh, did you learn to drive in Aspen?” I put a hand to my heart. “I had no idea!”
Julian’s eyes glittered with amusement. His grin was back. “Yeah, because I’m really rich. Always have been.”
“You are?”
He nodded. “Earned it through the generational wealth scholarship program.”
It was too much. I had to laugh, even as I punched his arm. “Okay, enough. I’ll stop worrying about the snow if you stop bragging about your money.”
Julian leaned forward and kissed me, slow, but insistent. “No promises.”
“No promises,” I echoed, the words striking a chord somewhere deep inside. Nothing could sum up our relationship more accurately. Neither of us had ever made any promises. Neither of us could.
Julian brought the coffee over, and we analyzed Callum’s reaction to the documentary. “It seemed positive,” I offered, not admitting that I hadn’t actually been paying attention. “I mean, he asked you to play it twice.”
“You’d think, but this is a man who read In Search of Lost Time and then wrote an Op Ed about how much he hated it,” Julian said ruefully.