Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
He looks at me for a long moment, the uncertainty plain as day, but with a slight warning, he dips his chin, giving his permission. I think it’s mostly because he’s so desperate to help Grace that he’d do anything, even let me and my big mouth loose in the desperate hope that it’ll be for the greater good.
“Both can be true. Hannah can be mean and be your friend, if that’s what you want,” I say gently. “But the company you keep tends to rub off on you, so you should choose wisely.”
Cameron inhales sharply at my harsh statement even though I tried to deliver it as kindly as possible, his piercingly blue eyes virtually yelling at me. Grace sniffles, so I lean in, hugging her shoulders.
“It’s okay. Friendships are hard sometimes, but you’ll figure things out. Just be true to you.” It’s not the best pep talk I’ve ever given, but sometimes the truth doesn’t come with rah-rahs and pom-poms. It comes with hard lessons that hurt, then scab over before leaving a scar of the lesson learned. “I’ll braid your hair anytime you want me to, though,” I vow, knowing it’s a small consolation. “In fact, I’ll even teach your dad how to do it so he can help you too in case I’m not here on a day you want it done.” I catch Cameron’s eye, daring him to disagree.
“That’s not necessary—”
“Sit over here so you can see.” I pointedly glance at the couch beside me, telling him exactly where I want him.
His reaction to being not only interrupted, but told what to do, is obvious and only adds to his already tense state. The tic in his cheek returns, his eyes go cold, and his lips are nearly white with how hard he’s pressing them together.
He’s not a man who follows orders. He’s the type who gives them, knowing they’ll be obeyed. That he’ll be obeyed—by Grace, by people at work, and usually, by his employees at home. Like me. And I will obey him in most things. But this is for Grace. She needs this distraction while what I’ve said ruminates in her mind, tossing and turning.
Like I told Cameron when he was dangerously close to commenting on that skirt, words have power. And the ones I just said are no different. But they’re not bombs that blow up immediately. They’re more like a slow leak, hopefully changing the topography of Grace’s thoughts as they sink in.
“Please,” I mouth silently, begging not for me or him, but for Grace.
He rises and stalks toward me, eyes flashing like warning lights. When he lowers himself to the couch beside me, I swear he measures the distance between our thighs with a glance like he can’t bear to be near me. But this is not about whatever tension was building between us over the weekend. This? It’s all about the little girl in front of us who’s going through her first hard lesson of hurting.
“Watch and learn,” I tell Cameron, purposefully lightening my tone to ease the pall hanging over the room.
I spray the other section of Grace’s hair with the spray bottle and make quick work of French braiding from her temple, over her head, to the nape of her neck, my bracelets jingling in the otherwise silent room. “Don’t worry about that part. Just start with two low ponies here and then braid regularly.” I point at Grace’s neck, where the braid switches from a French to a regular one. “You have three sections—left, center, and right. See?”
He nods jerkily, staring vacantly at Grace’s hair. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s mostly staring at my bracelets. I think he hates them. He’s always frowning at them, especially in the morning. I’ve taken to switching up my bracelet stacks to see if there’s one in particular that bugs him or just their existence in general. It seems to be the latter.
I demonstrate for him, crossing an outer section over the middle and alternating sides, and he watches. Or I think he does. “Keep it tight each crossover and take your time. You want to try?” I freeze, holding my hands in place so that I can replace my fingers with his to give him an opportunity to practice, but he jerks back.
“That’s okay. I can see what you’re doing. Thank you.” If you looked up curt in the dictionary, there’d be a picture of Cameron Harrington frowning at you from the book’s thin pages. He even gets up, putting several feet of space between us as he goes over to pick up his phone from the table. Except it didn’t make a noise and the screen’s been dark. It’s an excuse to get away.
But from me or the braiding? Does he have some sort of braid phobia or something? Maybe a previous pony attack that made braids revolting?