Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Okay, that sounds smart,” she says. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
The reminder that our time together is flying by dampens the mood for a moment, but by the time we reach the small line forming in front of a woman dressed in a gold ball gown, we’re both smiling again.
“What is this?” Sully asks, her eyes shining as she reads the velvet banner draped across the top of the ballroom door. “Harvest of the Mystic Moon?”
“A Halloween party,” I say, “but no costumes, thank God.”
She snorts. “I can’t imagine you in a costume, Mr. Fancy. Far too undignified for the likes of you.”
“Damn straight,” I agree, pulling my cell from my pocket and scrolling to the event app for our tickets.
She laughs and squeezes my arm. “But you’d make a great brooding Mr. Darcy. At least the Weaver I see around town would.”
My brows draw together. “Yeah?”
She nods, glancing forward as the line starts to move. “Yeah. That Weaver never smiles. Which is a shame.” She shifts her gaze back to mine. “Your smile is pretty special.”
I want to tell her that she’s special, that I wish I never had to be the Weaver I am in town, the one who has to walk around the world without her in his impenetrable shell. The realization hits hard, making my stomach tighten as we amble the final few feet to the check-in desk, and confirming the fear that’s been sneaking up on me with every amazing night I’ve spent with Sully this past week.
I’m falling in love with this woman.
Hell, maybe I already am in love with her.
As I look down at her now, the outline of her profile and the faint freckles on her nose are enough to send an ache spiraling through my chest. I want to write a song for this girl, to paint her the way I see her—perfect and authentic and wildly, messily alive.
I’m a money guy, a numbers guy. I appreciate art, but I’ve never had the urge to do anything “artsy” in my life. The fact that now it’s all I can think about half the time…
I’m screwed, so fucking screwed.
Even if I could find a way to fit into Sully’s life, she would never want to fit into mine. She made me pick her up next to a dumpster for God’s sake. She was that worried about someone seeing us together.
I hold my phone out to the woman in the ball gown with only half of my mind present and accounted for. The other half is racing through the facts as I know them, trying to figure out a way to dismiss the emotion swelling behind my ribs.
It’s just the sex. The sex has been better than I could have imagined when a virgin cat burglar crawled into my bed. Sully makes me feel things I haven’t felt in so damned long. Maybe ever. I think about being inside her, about fucking her until she makes those husky, sexy-as-hell coming sounds at least two hundred times a day.
Fabulous sex is intoxicating, disorientating.
I’ve never mistaken a great lay for true love before, but there’s a first time for everything.
Then there’s the fact that I’m back in my hometown, dealing with my brother’s death, surrounded by people who profess to love me even as they plot and scheme behind my back. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m in a weakened state, and Sully is a dangerous person to let your walls down around. She’s too curious, too kind. If you let her, she’ll crawl right over your defenses, pull you into a big hug, and convince you that don’t need your armor anymore.
Not as long as you have someone like her watching your back…
That’s all this is, a case of disparate, but powerful outside forces combining to convince me I’m feeling things I couldn’t possibly feel.
Not after a week.
Not when I know there’s no future for me and this shining girl.
She does shine, like she’s lit up from the inside. As we step into the ballroom, moving through a surprisingly realistic cornfield sprouting from the tile into a Stonehenge-type gathering of giant papier-mâché boulders positioned around the still empty dance floor, heads turn.
But Sully doesn’t notice, she’s too busy spinning in a slow circle, taking in the decorations.
“Wow,” she says, with a soft laugh. “This is so cool.” She motions toward the far right of the room, where several vintage wagons with brightly colored tents on top are parked in a row. In front of them, half a dozen women, wrapped in silk scarves, sit behind tables with tarot cards and crystal balls. “Fortune tellers, I assume?”
“Looks like it,” I say, still feeling off-kilter. My voice sounds strange, even to my own ears, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by my savvy companion.
Her brow furrows. “Are you okay?”