Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t go down the therapy route.” Sitting up, he half turns and grabs the tray, pulling out the legs from under it. “It’s more a… professional learning, I guess. Sit up?”
“Yum, yes! I’m so hungry my bum is chewing the mattress.”
He gives a mildly amused headshake before placing the tray over my thighs. He gently smacks away my hand as I reach for the fork.
“Ow. Also, how do you mean? The professional learning thing?”
“People in my line of business usually make a mistake or fall into it. They then realize that they not only got away with it but they also benefited from it. Profited, usually. They get a taste for it and do it again.”
“Sounds like you’re describing a criminal.” Dipping a strawberry in the caramelly goodness, I take a bite. The hit of sugar and the milky, toffee goodness means my eyes almost roll to the back of my head. “So good,” I add, offering him the next bite.
He could add sexy strawberry eater to his CV. And maybe sexy sous chef as he empties out the fruit and douses the waffles with the dulce de leche.
“Professional learning?” I prompt when he seems to decide not to pick up the conversation thread.
“You’re sure you want to hear this?”
I nod. “Yes. Of course I do.”
“Well, others are driven by a lack of choices or education, dysfunction, or poverty. Sometimes psychological issues.” His tone is so matter-of-fact as he spoons vanilla ice cream onto the plate. “Damn. I forgot the knife.”
“Still sounds like you’re talking about the same people, the same cross section of society. Why don’t you just—” I make a spooning motion, the yummy scent making me super hungry.
He half turns again, and as he turns back, he holds something in his hand. With a click, a blade appears, and as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world, he uses a mean-looking flick knife to slice the waffles.
“Would it matter?” The color of his eyes seems more milk chocolate than bitter coffee as they meet mine. I open my mouth to respond, and because he seems to think he’s a comedian, he shovels a forkful into my mouth.
“Ha-ha,” I say, my fingers pressed over my lips. No washing machine business going on here. I chew and swallow before pulling a face. “You think you’re so funny. Stealthy, too.” I tsk. “You mean, I suppose you’d need to be if you’re a criminal.”
“I’m not exactly—”
“Yes, I remember,” I say airily. “A businessman who colors outside of the lines.”
“I have a checkered past.”
“Haven’t we all?” Did that sound bright or tart? I can’t tell. “You’re not a bad person, Raif. We’re all light and shadow, good and bad. I’d already worked out you’re a bit of a wrong ’un.”
“A wrong ’un,” he repeats consideringly.
“Yeah. Forcing me, a poor young girl, to marry you, the great big ogre.”
I might not know the extent of his criminality, but I’ve known all along that he is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Whit. I’m under no illusion that I’m married to a Robin Hood character. I’d bet my life there are no innocents hurt by him. Unlike some people I refuse to mention.
“An ogre.”
“A good-looking one.” I glance down, struck by a cheeky thought. “And you’re hung like one.”
“Lavender!” He laughs. And sounds shocked.
“What? Now you’re an old maid?”
“You’re welcome.” I nod decisively and open my mouth like a baby bird. And there we sit, exchanging the fork to feed each other bits of waffle and fruit and ice cream as we bare our histories. Our scars. I tell him how in love my mum and dad were. How, when he died, she fell apart and lost herself in that wave of grief. How there wasn’t enough parent for everyone, and I acted out because, according to my Whit-appointed therapist, negative attention is still attention.
I even show him my soft underbelly despite the little voice that warns me he’ll learn how weak I really am. I say how, even today, I still act out because I feel so unremarkable in the face of my siblings’ achievements. Whit and his billions and his bank, Brin and El working for him, buying fancy apartments and driving fancy cars. Dan has traveled the world and even found someone to love. Primrose is excelling at uni and wants to be a psychologist. Sure, it’s essentially because she’s as nosy as all get-out, but I also find her direction really admirable. Even Heather, in all her neurodivergent awkwardness, found love and a soft place to fall. She’s thriving at work and killing it as a wife and a mother.
“You’re anything but unremarkable.” Raif’s expression isn’t exactly soft. Maybe more exacerbated? “You own an art gallery, and you’re not even a quarter of a century old.”