Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“There you go.”
“Felix is arriving in about four hours. I’m going to use that time to get myself together.” She sat back down and took a long drink from a water bottle.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
“No. I’ve been too wound up.”
I reached for the room service menu and flipped it open. “What are you in the mood for?”
Joy muttered, “A fucking valium, and a bottle of wine.” Then she glanced at me and said, “Sorry. I shouldn’t say stuff like that to someone who’s been sober as long as you have.”
“You can say whatever you want. How about a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch?”
She grinned and tucked her short bob behind her ears. “I haven’t had one of those in ages.”
“Well, they’re still delicious. I’ll get us that and their tomato bisque. It’s really good.”
“That reminds me of when we were kids. Remember? We’d sneak downstairs when Mom and Dad were out and our babysitter was parked in front of the television, and you’d make me exactly that, grilled cheese and tomato soup. It wasn’t a fancy bisque, though. It was that salty, delicious stuff from a can.”
The memory made me smile. I could still see Joy at six years old, coming to my room in her Barbie pajamas and begging for a midnight snack. “Of course I remember. The cans were part of Mom’s secret stash—all the stuff she loved, but that she considered too unhealthy for us kids.”
“You’ve always been such a good big brother, Mal. Even now, with the way you and Daniel stepped up and are trying to salvage this absolute disaster—I can’t even tell you what it means to me.”
Her voice cracked on that last part, and I said, “Please don’t start crying again.”
“I’m not. I told you I was done with that, and I meant it.”
“Good.” I picked up the phone and ordered some food, and after I disconnected the call I told her, “It’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
She nodded and pulled a compact from her designer handbag. When she looked in the mirror, she whispered, “Dear god,” and tried to clean up her smeared eye makeup with a fingertip. Then, as she started applying a coat of powder to her skin, she said, “Speaking of Daniel, I thought you’d lost your mind when I first met him. How old is he?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“I thought he was younger, but that’s still a shocker. Since when have you gone for guys his age?”
“I don’t. But for him, I was willing to make an exception.”
“I can see why. He’s fantastic, and I like the way you treat each other.”
“How do we treat each other?”
“With kindness and consideration. You’re always looking out for each other. There’s tenderness there, and comfort. It’s like you’re his safe place, and he’s yours. You were always so guarded with your partners, so it’s nice to see you open up to someone for a change.”
“He makes it easy.”
She looked up from her compact and asked, “Have you told him you love him yet?”
That startled me. “We’ve only been together for two weeks! It’s way too soon for stuff like that.”
“But you do love him, don’t you?”
“I’m definitely developing feelings for him. I have no idea where he’s at, though.”
My sister sighed. “Here’s a hint—pay attention to the way he looks at you. And hey, here’s a crazy thought. Try talking to him! Ask him how he feels, if those adoring puppy dog eyes aren’t enough of a clue for you.”
“I will. I just want to get through this weekend first.”
“Okay, good. I really like Daniel, and I hope you don’t screw it up.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Me, too.”
After we ate, Joy said she wanted to lie down for a few minutes. I told her I’d go check on the wedding prep and left her suite. On my way down the hall, I sent Daniel a text: Hey. Crisis temporarily averted. Joy is resting and seems to be in a better headspace. Where are you?
He replied: Up to my eyeballs in roses, orchids, lilies, and something I’ve just learned is called protea.
I wrote: Be right there, and pocketed my phone.
As I jogged down the stairs, I started going through my mental checklist of the things we still had to do to get ready for the wedding. I was deep in thought as I reached the main floor and started to cut through the lobby. Then someone called, “Malcolm,” and I turned toward the sound of their voice.
My son was walking toward me, dressed like he was about to step into a board room. I’d never been ‘Dad’ to him. That was a title reserved for the man who’d raised him. And yet, my ex-girlfriend had given him my last name, and he’d never changed it to his stepdad’s. When I was feeling pessimistic, I attributed that to wanting to make sure Brad inherited his piece of the Sterling fortune, whenever that opportunity presented itself.