Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
“You never considered going to your father for help?”
At that moment, Hugo entered with our first course. A soup. Steam wafted from the surface, but we both ignored it.
When he departed the dining room, I answered. “No. He hadn’t been a part of our lives then, so why should he be now? Besides, I wouldn’t even have known how to find him at the time anyway. My mother left me the house, but without a way to pay for it, I lost it to foreclosure. I had a lot more stuff on my plate.”
His attention was fully focused on me. The hot soup turned cold. His glass of wine was untouched. The bread in the center of the table was ignored. He rubbed his palm across his jawline then down the stubble at the top of his neck.
“Anyway…that’s my life story.”
“Have you enjoyed your profession? Or did you despise it the entire time?” He grabbed his spoon and took a bite, his eyes on the bowl in front of him.
For the first time, we were enjoying a real conversation, and I wanted it to last. “I know there’s a stigma around it, but it was definitely preferable to other lines of work. I was well compensated, and I actually liked some of my clients. You know, young, rich, and handsome, like you.”
His face remained hard despite the compliment.
“But I was young, no regard to my future. Once I realized what I really wanted in life, I knew this job was no longer feasible. No way I could ever find the love of my life if I was still fucking men for money.” I felt a very real fear that my past would forever compromise my future, that if I was lucky enough to find a man I loved, he would never love me once he learned the truth. “I still might not find the love of my life because I used to fuck men for money.”
“I don’t see why it would be an issue.”
I finally took a few bites of my soup, which was now lukewarm. “You’re used to the lifestyle. Most men aren’t.”
“The past belongs in the past, and if a man can’t live in the present with you, then he’s not the right man for you. If a man can’t forget about your old lovers, or if he’s too weak to make you forget about them, then he’s also not the right man for you.”
FIFTEEN
CAULDRON
The car pulled up to the restaurant, and once the driver opened the door for me, I walked right past the hostess podium as if I knew exactly where I was going.
Because I did.
I headed to the rear, the private room large enough to accommodate a party of fifty people, but now it had one lone table in the center, big enough for two. The chatter from the main room died away once I crossed the threshold.
He sat there alone, his eyes on me like he’d been watching the door for the last hour.
An hour because I was purposely late by an hour.
I lowered myself into the chair and enjoyed the irritated look deep in his visage. He tried to cover it as best he could, but his eyes were permanently scarred by his anger. The bottle of wine was open, so I poured myself a glass.
Silence.
Muffled conversations from the other room.
The distant sound of the violin and the cello.
He finally spoke. “You’re unsurprised to see me.”
I took a drink and wiped the remains with my thumb. “Micah is more loyal to me than you realize.”
One arm rested on the white tablecloth. A single white rose was in the vase between us. It would look like we were on a date if the tension weren’t thicker than humid summer air. He dismissed what I said by taking a drink.
“But I came anyway because I know this conversation needs to be had. Now say your piece so we can part ways and never speak again.”
His fingers rested on the stem of the glass, his fingers rotating it on the white tablecloth. His dark eyes were focused on me, the cogs in his brain turning to figure out how he would play this. “You’ve had your fun. You’ve tortured me. Now give her back.”
I took another drink.
“She means nothing to you.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then what is she to you?”
I gave a shrug. “A very good lay.”
The wineglass halted on the table. It looked as if he might snap the stem with his fingertips. “What do you want, Cauldron? There must be something.”
I gave another shrug. “I already have everything—especially now that I have her.”
“A favor. I can do something for you, no questions asked.”
“Unlike you, I do my own dirty work.”
His hand left the glass entirely, like he knew a shard was about to impale his hand if he weren’t careful. “I’m prepared to make this bloody if I have to.”