Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
I didn’t say yes. But he didn’t let me say no.
He’d placed the ring on my finger and told me to think about it and snapped his fingers for a waiter to bring champagne.
The Fox men are used to getting what they want.
I push the door open and step back out into the freezing night, a light flurry of snow falling. I huddle into my coat, draw the collar up, and am grateful for the dark night and the snow. It makes me anonymous somehow, allows me to hide my face.
I walk without seeing exactly where I’m going, not paying too much attention. The effects of the champagne Ethan ordered have already dissipated, and I’m left cold but not numb.
My skinny heels, a gift from Ethan, aren’t made for walking in the city and certainly not in snow, and my bare legs are freezing. When I get to The Grande, a large Parisian style brasserie that I know doesn’t have a television behind the bar, I push through the ornate glass doors and am instantly consumed by warmth and noise and laughter.
I stand there for a minute and let the heat penetrate me before unwrapping my scarf, pulling off my hat, and undoing the top button of my coat. All the tables are full, the remnants of dinner dishes being cleared, while desserts and more cocktails are served. It’s Saturday night two weeks before Christmas, and everyone is out dressed in their best. The restaurant is opulently decorated, and Frank Sinatra is singing a holiday tune in the background of all the revelry.
A couple slides off their stools at the bar, the man helping the woman into her coat before he puts his own on. I make my way toward the empty chairs, undoing my coat as I go and slipping it off to drape over the high back of the stool before taking a seat.
“Mind if I take this one?” someone asks of the stool beside mine.
“No, I’m alone,” I say, barely paying attention as the bartender smiles and asks for my order.
I order a vodka martini, although it’s not really my drink. I’m not actually sure why I order it. It’s Mrs. Fox’s cocktail of choice.
But it doesn’t matter much what I drink. I just want the warmth of it, the numbing effects the vodka will deliver. The bartender makes small talk and somehow, I smile along and answer his questions about my plans for Christmas. I’ll be going home next week, with just one more project to turn in before I’m done for the semester. He sets the martini in front of me, and I take my wallet out of my purse to hand him a credit card. Before I can, the man next to me slides his across the bar.
“I’ll have the same. First one’s on me,” he says.
I look over at him. He’s a few years older than me, and I can tell from his accent he’s not from here.
“Oh, that’s all right, thanks.”
“It’s Christmas,” he says, putting his hand over mine to stop me. “And I just closed a big deal so…” he trails off as the bartender sets his drink in front of him and takes the man’s card. The man holds his drink up. “Help me celebrate?”
I don’t feel like it but don’t really see a way out of it without making it into a big deal, so I pick up my glass and touch it to his.
“Thank you and congratulations,” I say, and take a sip of mine. I turn to look straight ahead at all the shiny bottles on glass shelves set on a mirror wall. The bar is polished mahogany and spans the entire length of the wall. The female bartenders are wearing reindeer headbands.
“Everyone seems to be celebrating something,” the man beside me says. “How about you?” he asks, clearly oblivious to my mood.
I should have insisted I pay for my own drink.
“Oh, I still have some work I need to do before the celebrations. School. So, I’m a little preoccupied,” I say, trying to add an upturned lilt to the end of my sentence.
“You’re a student?” he continues.
I nod, then take a sip of my martini—which tastes like rubbing alcohol—but I already feel the warmth of the vodka, so I take another. I’m grateful that the man is happy to tell me about his deal and his Christmas plans and his everything rather than asking me any more questions. I nod along, drink my martini, and try not to think about the engagement ring that probably cost a fortune just dropped there in my coat pocket.
Try not to think about my father’s face on the news.
When the bartender places a second martini in front of me, I realize I’ve already finished the first and thank him. He takes my empty glass. I don’t often drink, but tonight of all nights, I need it. I want it. By the time I’m halfway through the second glass, it doesn’t taste so bad, but I hardly ate anything at dinner so I should probably watch it.