Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Her overfilled lips curl into a sly smile. “Always do.”
The crosswalk sign flicks to white and she leaves with a wave and a wink.
7
Brie
"Can’t wait to tell Cain the big news.” Grant zips his suitcase and slides it off his bed, chuckling to himself as if he’s privy to some inside joke. Outside, the blazing September sun scorches through an open window, baking this room ten degrees too hot. “The look on his face will be priceless.”
“You haven’t told him yet?”
It’s been a week since we got engaged—the fact that he hasn’t shared the news with his supposed best friend strikes me as strange considering the fact that he goes to New York for work once a month.
He laughs under his breath. “Actually, he doesn’t even know you exist.”
“Wait, what?”
“He’s going to be shocked, I can tell you that.”
“I’m confused.” I perch on the edge of his neatly-made bed with its tucked corners and wrinkle-free coverlet. Grant is nothing if not pristine in every facet of his life. He’s a details man, which is great, because I’m a details woman. “Why wouldn’t you tell him about us?”
“Brie, love... he’s gone through pure hell the last six months. Last thing he needed to hear was that I’d met the love of my life and was happier than ever. I didn’t want to make the visits about me.”
“Okay, but given the fact that we met because of his accident … I don’t think sharing that news with him would detract from his recovery …”
“You’re overthinking this, Miss White.” He’s trying to be playful, attempting to lighten this exchange. “Or should I say, future Mrs. Forsythe?”
He makes his way closer and dips to kiss the top of my forehead, cupping my face in his warm hand. “You’ll meet him next month at the party. We’ll give him the whole story then.”
Ah, yes. The party celebrating the fact that Cainan didn’t die. Grant said Cainan’s sister is an event planner and wanted to get all of his friends and family in one room, sort of like an anti-funeral. He rolled his eyes at the concept, but I found it brilliant.
“All right,” I tell him as I lie on my back and tuck my hands behind my neck. The ceiling fan above spins on low, its blades shiny and polished. The diamond on my left finger digs into my nape, so I readjust my position. “Wish I was going with.”
As often as the two of us travel to New York for work, not once have our work schedules aligned.
Grant stands at the foot of the bed. “I know, babe. But you can’t miss your sister’s baby shower.”
“Yes, I can. It’s her fifth kid in eight years. She shouldn’t be having baby showers at this point.” I roll my eyes and sit up. “Send me pictures, will you?”
He makes a face, one I’ve never seen before. “What, like selfies? Of the two of us?”
“Yeah, why not?”
He chuckles. “Guys don’t do that, babe.”
When I discovered Grant was the friend of the man whose life I helped save, I wanted so badly to be able to put a face to his name. A non-bloodied face. After I learned his name, I performed a string of fruitless social media searches. Later, when I brought him up to Grant, he mentioned Cainan had some weird stalker situation several years back and closed down all of his accounts. Besides, he was hardly on them. He was too busy working hard, and when he wasn’t working, he was playing harder.
I didn’t press the photo thing after that.
I didn’t want to seem weird or pushy or obsessed when it was nothing more than an innocent bout of curiosity.
“Walk me out?” He glides his hand up my arm before interlacing his fingers with mine, and then he helps me up.
With his suitcase in tow, we head out, locking up, and ride the elevator to the main floor of his condo building, which is so new I can still smell the heady aroma of fresh paint on the wall and the pungent tang of the grout between the marble tiles.
Growing up, my father got his start as a local homebuilder, putting up half a dozen houses a year until he bankrolled himself into bigger and better projects. It took him less than twenty years to become one of the wealthiest real estate tycoons in the greater Phoenix area. Seemed like every couple of years, my mother would have my father build us another home, always bigger, always better. She loved change. My father loved her.
The scent of new construction, in a strange way, reminds me of home.
“I’ll text when I land.” He kisses me, and then he pops the trunk of his car open. “I love you.”
I repeat the sentiment as I always do, secretly hoping one of these times I might feel it when I say it. So far, when I say those three little words, all I feel is a hopeful little ping … that quickly morphs into guilt.