Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“Because it’s cool as hell, that’s why,” he says. “And Slade says I’ve been putting too many miles on the Portofino. I guess he plans to trade it in soon. Maybe for a minivan or something.”
“Really?” I can’t tell when Oliver is kidding half the time. “A minivan?”
“No.” He chuckles. “He’ll probably trade it in for a newer model.”
“Do you ever think about buying your own cars?”
“Why do that when I can buy boats and drive his cars instead?” He taps me on the shoulder. “Speaking of, you coming out on the water this week? It should warm up … if it ever stops raining.”
“Not this time.”
“Wow, you didn’t even hesitate. Not even an ounce of false hope this time.”
“Thought I’d be more direct,” I say. “Maybe Slade’s rubbing off on me a little.”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“Say what you will about it, at least we all know where he stands.”
“You sure about that?” he cocks his head. “I’ve always thought of the guy as more of a cryptograph.”
“It’s not like he speaks in riddles,” I say. “I’m never confused about where I stand with him. I’m just some woman he has to marry, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Hm,” the tone of Oliver’s voice is neutral, as if he doesn’t agree nor disagree.
“What?”
“I hope one day he realizes how good he has it,” Oliver says before lifting a palm. “And I don’t say that in a creepy young uncle hitting on you kind of way.”
I chuckle. “Good. Because I like you and I don’t want things to get weird between us.”
“Same,” Oliver says. “Anyway, Slade’s a stubborn bastard. Always has been. I have a feeling he’ll come around on his own terms.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see.”
“At least he’s making an effort to spend time with you, especially with everything going on.”
“What do you mean? What’s going on?” I ask. “Besides work, which is always going on …”
“I just mean, with the wedding and the stuff at the office. You might not be his number one priority, but you’re on the list. That’s huge for him.” Oliver points the keys at me. “You know how many people would love to be on his list?”
“And what list might that be?” Slade appears behind Oliver. I hadn’t heard him come home.
Oliver whips around. “We were discussing your busy schedule.”
Slade squints, like he’s trying to have some silent conversation with his uncle.
“Anyway, just here to grab the Divo,” Oliver says on his way out. “I’ll have it back tomorrow, freshly washed and waxed per usual.”
“Mm hm,” Slade says as he strides towards me. The vision of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Moody in his all black dress shirt and slacks and the glinting white-gold Rolex on his wrist sends a flutter to my heart as I forget, momentarily, that he’s my future husband and not some handsome rando.
“Hi.” I offer a tepid smile, unsure of his mood or the reason behind his hasty exit and radio silence last month.
“Hi.” He unfastens his watch and slips it into his pocket before unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up his forearms.
“How was work? Oliver said you’ve been dealing with a lot lately?” I ask. “You left so fast last time and we never talked about it …”
“Work is work.”
I follow him to his study, where he pours himself a drink before standing in front of an arched window with a million-dollar view of the bay. The rain has let up somewhat, and a hint of sun peeks from behind dark clouds, but the thunder remains.
“Well if you ever need to vent,” I say, “I’m happy to listen—”
“You don’t have to be kind to me just because we’re getting married.” His voice is stony and unfeeling, everything about him is ice cold. More than usual—more, even, than last time. “It’s insulting, honestly.”
Slade tosses back his Scotch with a single unflinching gulp.
“I’m confused,” I say. “Are you mad because I’m being trying to be nice?”
“Not mad. It’s just not what we do. It’s not what we’ve ever done. It feels disingenuous.” He runs his hand through his chocolate-brown hair, his gaze growing unfocused as he studies the storm.
I’ve only been here a couple of hours and this is how we’re kicking off the week?
I turn to leave, to give him the space he clearly needs.
“Where are you going?” He’s staring outside but speaking to me.
“I’ve never been called disingenuous in my life,” I say. He turns around and our eyes catch. I search for any signs in his that he knows he’s wrong, that he regrets his words or his off-key treatment of me, only he’s as unreadable as always. “I’m going for a walk.”
“It’s raining.” He pours another finger of Scotch from his decanter. “And you don’t know your way around.”
“I’ll bring an umbrella,” I tell him. “And I’ll figure it out.”