Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“We shouldn’t joke about this.”
“You’re right, but it’s better than driving ourselves insane with everything that could go wrong.”
We eat without talking for a minute or two. My mind returns to the car, to the conversation about family, then the obsessed way he stared at me when we talked about my virginity. Several times, he cut off what he was about to say as though he would go further, share more, and then stop himself. Maybe he thinks I wouldn’t feel the same. What am I thinking? The same? I don’t even know how he feels.
“This place is really nice,” I say, mainly so we’re not sitting here without talking.
“You look so beautiful in the firelight. The way it bounces off your cheeks makes them look even more flushed.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“You look young, almost naïve, but fiery and sassy at the same time. Fertile.”
He bites down on the last word. My belly sizzles.
“Did you just say fertile?”
He laughs, leaning back, eyes suddenly flitting here and there as though he doesn’t want to look at me.
“Yeah. No idea where that came from. Not the sort of thing you’re supposed to tell your niece, is it?”
“I didn’t even know a person could look fertile,” I murmur, my heart pounding so freaking hard, sending hot shivers of longing through me.
“They can because you do,” he says. “Flushed youthful cheeks, wide hips, big, beautiful…” He nods at my chest, and I grin. “Perfect for feeding your children. If fertility were a woman, she’d be you.”
I’m beaming, but I attempt to push some of it down. Just because he’s saying all this doesn’t mean he’s talking specifically about us. Then why say it at all?
Maybe it’s time to stop doubting. This is another reason to take pride in my body. It has a purpose for us and the future.
“Why do I feel you’re hinting at something?”
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever said. It’s even more difficult to look him in the eye as I ask, stare at him as bravely as possible, and not let my anxiety surface.
“Care to get specific?” he says.
It sounds like you want us to have children together, I almost say, but then a voice rises behind me.
“Is that Lilly? Little Lilly Hill?”
I turn to find two men standing a few feet from our table. I don’t recognize either of them. One is tall and has cutting features, a sharp jawline, and a jutting chin. He has a dark brown mop of hair and is wearing a leather jacket. The other is shorter and wider, wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and showing his colorful tattoos.
They exchange a glance and walk over. The closer they get, the more certain I become they’re drunk. They’re not crazy drunk, but they’re weaving on the spot.
I won’t lie. I’m pissed at them for choosing now to swagger over whoever they are. They clearly know me, even if they got my first name wrong. They got my surname right.
“Lilly Hill?” Leatherjacket says.
“Maybe we’re farther gone than we thought, eh?” the man in denim says in a slurred voice.
Opposite me, Miles is sitting up, his chest expanding, his arms tensing. He eyes the men like he’d happily tear their limbs from their bodies. There’s something wild and animalistic in Miles’ posture.
“Can we help you, gentlemen?” he says.
His voice is civil, but I can detect the sharp electricity ready to jolt through him. It’s easy to imagine him leaping to his feet with his fists clenched, ready to go to war.
“We knew your dad,” Leatherjacket says, not even looking at Miles. “He was a good man. Don’t you remember us, Lilly?”
“My name’s Layla,” I snap, “and if you’re one of Dad’s friends from his druggy days, I’m sorry, but I won’t recognize you. I was young and tried to put all that behind me.”
“The druggy days,” the man in denim says, laughing harshly, with no humor at all. “Got a lot of judgment in your voice there, darling.”
On the darling, Miles moves as if to stand. I gesture at him, giving him a look.
I can handle this.
He sits back with lips flattening into a stern grimace, his hands squeezing the table’s edge.
“Is there something you need?” I ask.
“We’ve come by the restaurant a few times, too,” Leatherjacket says, shifting on the spot. “I’ve thought about saying hello, but you know what Graham’s like.”
“Always so ashamed of his past,” the man in denim says, nodding. “Leave her alone. She doesn’t know. All that crap, but you’re a big girl.”
The other man laughs darkly. “You can say that again.”
My mind spins, trying to catch up. These men knew Dad when he turned to drugs, and they know Graham, which means the connection is undeniable as if the photo wasn’t enough.
Miles moves to stand up again, but I give him an even sterner look. He glares at me, his body looking as if it could erupt and tear out of his clothes. The table trembles, cutlery rattling, as he attempts to control himself.