Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
He shrugs. “Bond thought so.”
“So, is this your drink of choice?” I ask, settling on a barstool, determined to lure him into conversation, and maybe, just maybe—something resembling civility.
“I’ve been known to order it.”
“But is it your favorite?”
“What am I, twelve?”
“I didn’t ask you to please rate your favorite Power Rangers in reverse order,” I say, striving for patience. “I was just asking if this is your go-to drink order.”
“No.”
God give me strength.
“So what is your go-to drink order?”
“Are you always this talkative?”
“Yes. Most people find it extremely charming.”
“Most people aren’t married to you.”
“Only because I’ve been taken since I was twenty-one.” I flutter my eyelashes.
He rewards me with a very slight upward tilt of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think that guy knew what he was getting into.”
“Oh, please. You’ve been dealing with me for all of one week. Don’t tell me that the twice annual emails or text messages over the past decade were too much for you to handle.”
“I survived.”
I spin my drink in a slow circle. “Why did we last so long, do you think?”
He gives a casual shrug. “I never really had reason to end it.”
“Until now.”
“Until now,” he agrees.
“What changed? I mean, I’m not complaining, I’m just curious.”
“I guess I realized I’m an adult. No longer a kid in need of a green card.”
“And I’m no longer a rebellious girl in need of her trust fund to escape her parents.”
“No. You’re not.”
I narrow my eyes because there’s a little something extra in his tone.
“What’s that I’m hearing?” I say. “Judgment? It sounds like judgment.”
“I just find it interesting that you’ve been in the city for a week and haven’t seen or spoken with your mother. Or father.”
“How do you know I haven’t called them? Or seen them?”
“Your mother told me.”
I nearly spit out my drink. “You talk to my mom? When?”
“She texted me yesterday when she hadn’t heard from you.”
“She texts?”
“Yes, Charlotte. Both of your parents are savvy enough to have mastered text messages. Something you might know had you taken the time to stay in touch this past decade.”
“Hey. My relationship with my parents is not your business. I don’t go around asking the last time you’ve seen your parents.”
His jaw tightens.
I give him a vaguely smug look. “So. Then you’re not really one to talk now, are you?”
He stares me down, and I stare right back, and damn it. He wins, because I cave.
“What did she want?” I ask.
“Your mother?”
I nod.
Colin shrugs. “She knows you’re back. Knows about our situation. Wanted to see how you were.”
“She could have called me,” I grumble.
“Would you have picked up?”
“Yes.” Maybe. Probably. Possibly not.
It’s not like I’ve had no contact with my parents. We’ve thawed slowly over the years, mostly due to my brother’s persistence. I call on birthdays. We talk on Christmas. I saw them at my grandmother’s funeral and at my brother’s wedding in the past couple of years.
It’s just … chilly. We don’t understand each other. They’re two of the most opinionated people on the planet, and yet they somehow manage to be both baffled and outraged that they got an opinionated daughter who refuses to subscribe to the life they’d laid out for her.
“So, did you know my mom once grounded me for getting my hair cut?”
“Yes, of course. I keep track of all your past haircuts and have a list of all the times you were grounded as a child.”
I let out a little laugh, delighted by the dry sarcasm, but I forge ahead to make my point. “I was seventeen. I read an article on pixie cuts in Cosmopolitan, thought it would look cute on me, so I went to the salon, showed them the picture, and came home with a pixie cut.”
“Fascinating stuff.”
“My mom was so horrified, she grounded me for a week. I missed the spring formal. Because of a haircut, Colin.”
He sips his drink. “How old are you?”
“You know exactly how old I am.”
“Yes. I do. Which is how I know that this episode with the pixie whatever happened a long time ago. Perhaps it’s time to let that one go. Perhaps it’s time to let it all go.”
“You’re not wrong.”
His hand freezes midway toward setting his glass on the counter, and it’s oddly gratifying to know I can surprise this man. “I’m not?”
I shrug. “Like you said, it’s been long enough.”
With that, I stand and pick up my own glass, and head back toward my bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
“To call my mom,” I call over my shoulder. “If you hear screaming, be a good husband and make me another drink, would you?”
Chapter 9
Sunday, August 30
Is it still too hot to be wearing leather pants? Absolutely.
But it’s a small price to pay for showing my parents that, while we might be meeting on their turf, I’m still me. The version of me that pairs leather pants with red patent leather shoes and a black silk camisole. No cardigan. It’s the no cardigan that will get my mother, mark my words.