Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Dimmed crystal chandeliers that sparkle just right.
First class service.
It isn’t shoulder to shoulder, overly crowded, or full of college students living their best lives … it’s chill, peaceful, and ambient.
A world away.
“Ms. Davenport. Mr. Gold,” our cocktail server says, depositing our drinks on glass coasters on the table before us. “I’ll be back to check on you in a while. Enjoy.”
She struts off and Talon hands me my drink—an Aperol spritzer.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his tumbler against my martini glass a second later.
We’re surrounded by some of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, velvet everything, and the kind of music that puts you in an upscale trance—but it’s the strangest thing.
All I see is him.
“How’s it taste?” he asks after I take a sip of my drink.
I let the bitter orange and sweet champagne bubbles pop on my tongue before swallowing. “Like magic. Yours?”
“Best Korean ginseng whiskey I’ve ever had.” He winks, taking a small sip.
“This place is incredible, Talon,” I say, peering around the room. My attention stops by the DJ booth, where some woman in a white dress is leaning in to request a song. “That woman looks familiar. I swear I saw her on that perfume billboard on Ocean Drive. Is that … is that …?”
I don’t finish my thought because her name escapes me, but that face—I’d recognize that face anywhere because it’s everywhere.
And now it’s here.
In the flesh.
“Probably.” Talon shrugs, not so much as attempting to follow my gaze. “So …”
“Yes?”
“I told you a little about me back at the gallery, about my family,” he says. “Tell me about yours. You’re from the Midwest, right?”
“Missouri,” I say, reaching for the wooden drink menu on the table. “And I highly suggest we find a more enthralling topic of conversation.”
“Your parents, tell me about them,” he says, ignoring my suggestion.
“My mom isn’t an interior designer and my dad isn’t a famous architect,” I say with a wink. “That’s about all I can say about them.”
The music pulses behind us, slow and steady, but my heart is rapid-firing. Talking about my family always gets me worked up, but I’m trying to keep this moment light. Discussing those two will only weigh it down.
“Come on,” he says, half-laughing. “I’m being serious. I want to know all about you, where you came from, what got you here.”
I take a generous sip of my spritzer and fold the drink menu before pushing it aside. “I don’t usually talk about that. With anyone.”
“I don’t talk about my father either,” he says. “But honestly, it felt kind of good talking about him with you earlier.”
I exhale. It’s been years since I’ve talked about my parents, but maybe it could do me some good to unload some of that baggage? Besides, it’s not like my crazy family is going to send him running. It’s not like he’s interviewing the future mother of his child and trying to ensure his future prodigy won’t be tainted with wacko blood.
I decide to give him the condensed version.
“I’ve never met my father,” I say. “And my mother lives on some commune in Idaho that doesn’t believe in electronics and like to pretend they’re still living in the pioneer days.”
Talon almost chokes on his whiskey.
“Since the age of ten, I was shipped from family member to family member until I was thirteen and my mom’s brother and his wife took me in.” I take another drink because I’m going to need it. “I spent my teenage years living in the strictest household in the entire state of Missouri by an aunt and uncle who were convinced I was the spawn of Satan because they caught me listening to Selena Gomez once.”
“That nuts, huh?”
I lift my palm. “Hand to God. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough and they couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
I leave out a few other details, things that are neither here nor there and not worth repeating—at least not now.
“So how’d you end up here?” he asks.
“Aunt Bette,” I say. “Though technically she’s not my aunt. She’s my uncle’s wife’s aunt. But she needed a live-in caretaker, and she offered to take me in and pay for my schooling if I lived with her. And so I did.”
“You happy you did?” he asks. “Can’t imagine you’re getting the full college experiencing living off-campus.”
“I couldn’t care less about the full college experience,” I say, taking a swig. It’s mostly true. Sometimes I look at people who are able to live so carelessly and carefree and I get that pang of jealousy, but then I look at Aunt Bette—who isn’t even technically part of my family and yet she treats me like I’m her own. Out of everyone, she’s the truest family member I’ve ever known.
“Your aunt was telling me to make sure you had a good time tonight,” he says.