Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I walk to the living room, and he follows me. His eyes bulge when he views the bookcase. This week, I went to the thrift store in the small town half an hour away. I’ve been there before. They happen to sell their books at ten for a dollar. As luck would have it, someone donated their whole collection of pure smut, which is very exciting for me since I enjoy reading a good romance and can take down one or two in a day. It’s about the only action I see out here, and also? Some of those love stories are pretty sweet. I should be a complete and utter cynic after what happened to me, but I can’t seem to wipe out the gross, romantic streak within me. Doesn’t everyone hope for a happily ever after, even if it’s only a secret hope?
“The online poker then,” he chokes out with a cough.
I grab my tablet off the coffee table and try to turn it on. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to charge it. It’s dead.” There are two handheld games on the table, but when I try them, they’re both dead as well. “Double shoot. I forgot to buy batteries. Looks like you’ll just have to watch me sew, after all.”
All this man has to do is breathe, and I burst into spontaneous goosebumps, but now that he’s breathing heavily? Oh, my holy rumpuses. He’s got his facial shit down to a science, while I have the poker face of a grinning chihuahua. Never mind. Those things can take a handoff if they’re inclined, grinning or not. His eyes give nothing away. They’re still just as hard and flinty.
Does he have to be so different from everyone else? That’s the problem. His edge is my new edginess.
“Did you have a good week?” I’m not trying to goad him, I swear.
“No. It was the same week I have every week.”
“The week you deserve?” I probe.
“No.” His eyes track to the books, then to the window. He looks like he’s going to tell me this was all a mistake, pull out his wallet, and pay up. Sudden panic flares inside me. I want to laugh all this off, clear the table, and be normal, regular Ignacia. No, not me, but my persona. The one I gave him last week. Mostly me. Happy, sweet, somewhat guarded, cautious, genuine me.
When those cold blues slam back to my face, all the breath leaves my body. Note to self: exiting oxygen just leaves room for more fiery blood. “It’s getting late. You do the sewing, and I’ll make dinner.”
“Uh—what?”
“You said you were planning to cook chicken and a salad, so I’ll make that.”
“But you…you’re rich. You have people to do all that. You can’t…you can’t actually…have you ever cooked anything?”
He quirks a brow. “I wasn’t rich for the first half of my life, or did you forget what I shouldn’t have told you?”
Ouch. That might be toneless, and his face is still perfectly arranged into nothingness, but I see something in his eyes. It’s not flames, and it’s not more ice. It’s more like a shadow. I get it. Memories hurt. I miss my family, but they’re all still there, still alive. This man’s birth parents didn’t want him at any point in his life or theirs, and the people who raised him and loved him like their own are both dead. He has no siblings, at least not ones he can reach out to.
Even if he’s dealt with it through expensive therapy, I don’t know whether any amount of talking can fix grief like that. Time doesn’t fix everything, and maybe it shouldn’t. Beau could have been a different person if he hadn’t been given away. He would be a different person if he were given away and his adoptive parents weren’t dead. I mean that in a purely emotional sense and not a financial one, but maybe it’s connected, too. I think Beau is a cold, unfeeling asshole covering up a wounded heart by choice. But he probably wasn’t always like this.
Maybe that’s the irony. He’s so good at it. I, on the other hand, have a legit fake identity. I’ve made myself a secondary life. But, on the inside, I’m always going to be who I am. Nothing is going to change that.
Whatever. Dinner is dinner. It’s not crimes against humanity. I don’t have to be on my guard against that.
“I do have chicken in the fridge. I bought it because I thought you’d like it. And I was kidding about the spinach. I’m more of a spring mix kind of girl. But there are cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, and other delicious offerings in the crisper.”
He pretends to be utterly disinterested, as though he’d eat cardboard for dinner if it’s what I had on hand.