Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Mostly I think about Hope. I hated leaving her there, especially with Roy. I trust she can handle herself, but witnessing what she did had to be rough on her. And then there was the conversation we had before it all went to hell.
Hope wants to come to California to see me. She wants this to be more than a rebound fling, and while I’d happily be that for her, I’m fucking ecstatic that she wants more. I do too.
So much more.
There’s just one last hiccup to handle before that can be a reality, and it has nothing to do with Roy, his father, or my current predicament.
Chapter 19
HOPE
I watch in disbelief as Leeson takes Ben out of Let’s F*rk in handcuffs. How did this become my life? I’ve gone from boring to a soap opera in a matter of days. Oddly, I feel more alive than I ever have.
With fury. With power. With confidence.
“Hope, I know you didn’t mean any of that. You’re confused, is all,” Roy says, as if he has a single clue what the hell I am. “Dad’ll take care of that asshole, and when he’s gone, you’ll start thinking straight again. Shoot, we can probably still get married next weekend if the judge is available.”
He chuckles, like every bit of my heart that I poured out on the floor between us is nothing more than me being a silly goose, and we can go right back to where we were a couple of days ago—at the altar, getting hitched. He even throws an arm over my shoulders and pulls me to his side like he’s done hundreds of times, talking to me like I’m a child who needs to be coaxed into making the right decision. You like broccoli. It’s good for you. Eat it all up like a nice girl.
Except Roy’s the green vegetable I don’t want. I mean, the life I don’t want. One where he controls everything and I’m expected to go along with what he deems best. One where I squash down any thoughts or feelings I might have that are contrary to his so that I’m seen as a good girlfriend, fiancée, and wife. One where I do everything to serve him and make his life better while all I get is the silent satisfaction of a job well done because fuck knows, Roy will never notice or care what I’ve done for him. One where the sum total of my existence is as Mrs. Roy Laurier. Not Hope. Not me.
I’ve got one thing to say to that.
“Fuck off, Roy Laurier.”
Glaring at him with contempt, I knock his arm from my shoulder and grab my bag from the table, leaving our half-eaten sandwiches there. Which also pisses me off because Let’s F*rk makes the absolute best sandwiches.
On second thought, I grab mine and take a huge, messy bite, and then, with a full mouth, I tell him again, “It’s over. Done. Kaput. Leave me alone.” A piece of lettuce falls to the floor, landing right on the stupid roses.
I don’t even like roses—they smell like old-lady lotion—and Roy knows that. Or he should, if he paid a single bit of attention to any of my floral designs for the wedding. I talked to him about it—or at least, I tried to—with pictures, price lists, and options from the florist. No roses—no white, red, or pink ones were in my bouquet, the arch, or even sprinkled down the aisle. Yet he brought me stereotypical red roses thinking I would swoon at his feet.
I jerk the bag onto my shoulder and stomp toward the door, going out right as Deputy Leeson is coming back in. I must look like a bull in a china shop, because he moves out of my way, letting me bust into the sunshine outside just in time to see another sheriff’s SUV pulling away. Ben must be in there.
There are a few people frozen on the sidewalk, but they all focus quickly on me, staring and stepping back a bit to give me some space like I’m a firework about to go off. Some look concerned or maybe shocked; some seem evilly delighted at my apparent drama and trauma.
“Hamburger Help-me, now what?” I mutter to myself.
“Are you getting back together with Roy?” a high school–age girl asks me.
“No,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
I might not know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but my feet start moving again as I push my way through the small crowd and don’t stop until I’m sitting in Ben’s rental car.
And finally, in the false privacy of the car, the tears come.
I cry for the girl I was. I cry for the woman I’m becoming. I cry for the life I’m leaving behind and the one I’m building. I cry for Ben. I even cry for Roy because I hate being so blunt, but I need him to hear me when I say we’re done.