Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I don’t want to linger, but I can’t help slowing down to admire the cabin’s interior. It’s just as beautifully restored and lovingly cared for as the deck above, with mahogany floors, walls, and ceilings. There’s a small kitchen to my left and a dining area to my right. Above the table and benches, a long bookshelf runs the length of the room. It’s packed with books whose spines are creased, pages soft from age and use. My heart twists when I see some of our old favorites: a classic fantasy trilogy, a few thrillers, and a handful of romances too.
I have to try very hard not to think about how Riley and I reenacted our favorite sex scenes from a particularly hot mafia romance, reading them over and over again to get the details just right. The effort makes my entire being ache.
I also try not to think about why Riley kept those specific books, and why he chose to display them so prominently. I turned him into a voracious reader that summer; I imagine he has oodles of books he could display on his bookshelf.
Instead, he chose the ones I introduced him to.
The ones we talked about on our meandering golf cart rides and stolen moonlit cruises.
I find the bathroom down a narrow hall to the left. It’s tiny but beautiful, of course, all white tile and chrome fixtures.
It smells like him, and I see why: there’s a bottle of Coppertone by the sink, cap still open.
The ache inside me is almost unbearable by the time I emerge from the restroom.
I need to get out of here.
I need to get laid.
I need to figure out why I can’t ignore this shit knowing what I do about Riley. He isn’t the guy I thought he was when I fell in love with him ten summers ago, and that alone should make it easy to keep my distance. Never mind the fact that he wasn’t faithful and broke my heart.
But he keeps making me feel things, and I truly hate him for it.
I hate myself for not having more control over my emotions. I’m twenty-eight years old, for crying out loud. I know better.
But then Riley says things like it wasn’t stupid, and all of a sudden my heart’s taking a swan dive.
I turn the corner but draw up short when I see him descending the steps, his legs moving rhythmically, confidently, like he’s trundled down those stairs thousands of times. His chest and shoulders strain against the starched fabric of his shirt as he ducks his head and steps off the final tread.
He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into the V of his shirt. He looks up and our eyes lock, the blue in his appearing especially saturated in the watery light inside the cabin.
Now I really can’t breathe.
“I was just coming to find you,” he says. “It’s not exactly a huge space down here, but it is easy to get turned around.”
A polite reply is on the tip of my tongue. I’m fine. Your boat is rad. I should go, I know Goldie’s getting tired.
Instead I blurt, “Why’d you bring up the cookbook?”
He looks at me for a long beat. Raises his arm to grasp the edge of the opening in the ceiling above the stairs. The move is obscenely sexy, but the way he leans forward? The bulk of his body crowding mine?
It makes my brain short circuit.
“Because I always hoped you’d actually do it. But I never saw it—the cookbook—as the years passed. Believe me, I looked. I even set up a Google alert.”
I’ve only had one panic attack. It was at my doctor’s office last week. But I’m pretty sure I’m on the verge of another one right now: can’t breathe, can’t think, chest tight.
I still manage to let out a mirthless laugh. “Riley, I was never going to publish a cookbook. That was an eighteen-year-old’s pipe dream. I live in reality now.”
“How’s reality treating you?”
Not great. “None of this makes sense. You steal my ideas, you steal my recipes, but then you tell my friends how great you’d think my cookbook would be?”
He leans toward me a little more. I should move, step back, but I don’t.
My pulse is racing.
“It would be great. A bestseller for sure. I waited and waited for it, but since it never happened, I decided to take matters into my own hands. If you weren’t going to make your dreams come true, I’d do it. Part of my plan to, well. . .win you back.”
I stare at him. My brain scrambles to keep up with what he’s telling me. Meanwhile, my heart is rioting inside my chest. I cover it with one hand and hold up the other. “Win me back?” A bark of harsh laughter escapes my lips. “Are you serious?”