Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“Who the fuck is Allie Rousseau?” Eric raised his voice.
Gavin lifted his eyebrows at me in challenge and slid the lager my way.
“You’re an asshole.” I took the offered beer.
“Alessandra Rousseau? The ballerina?” the suit closest to us interrupted.
All three of us turned our heads in surprise.
“What?” The guy loosened his silk tie. “I live in New York and my wife likes ballet.”
“Wasn’t talking to you,” I all but snapped.
“I was.” Beachman turned his full body. “Tell me more.”
I took a long pull of the beer while Boardroom showed Eric something on his phone.
“Hooooooooly shit.” Beachman whipped the phone my direction. “This is who you’re talking about?”
A Google image search brought up half a dozen pictures of Allie, mostly on the stage, the long lines of her body contorted flawlessly into impossible positions. He pointed to her formal headshot for the Company, which was—of course—a fucking showstopper. The photographer had caught her without a smile, wide eyed as though waiting for his next direction.
“That’s the one,” Gavin remarked, starting on another drink and blatantly ignoring the customers at the far end who looked like they wanted another round.
Eric returned the phone and thanked the suit before swiveling his seat back toward me. “And you’ve never told me about her because . . . ?”
My mouth opened, then shut. This right here was definitely in the drawback column of being stationed in my hometown.
“Because he’s still in love with her.” Gavin set a drink down in front of me that looked suspiciously like the one Beth had been drinking, rum and Coke. For all his issues in the reliability department, he had a memory like an elephant.
“No, I’m not.” Even another swig couldn’t wash the taste of a lie out of my mouth.
“Yeah, you are. He is,” he repeated to Eric with a nod. “Which is why he doesn’t talk about her.”
“For fuck’s sake, will you stop?” I pushed away from the bar.
“He’s either your closest friend or he’s not.” Gavin scoffed.
“I am.” Eric leaned forward like an old man at a barbershop, hungry for gossip disguised as news.
“She was my best friend,” I said just to shut up Gavin. “Her parents have a place here, and we met when we were teenagers. We were close for two summers and . . .” Words failed me, just like always. Everything that happened that night had been and still was unspeakable.
“And he was in love with her,” Gavin whispered loudly before pouring a Coors Light from the tap.
“Don’t you have customers?” I gestured down the bar.
“Don’t you have a date you’re avoiding?” he countered, sliding the beer to Eric.
“Truth.” Eric winced, taking the draft and glancing over his shoulder toward the booths.
“Point is, Bateman—” Gavin started as he mixed a vodka and cranberry juice.
“Beachman,” Eric corrected yet again.
“That’s what I said.” Gavin stuck a cocktail straw in and swirled. “That woman you so kindly brought to meet my brother doesn’t stand a chance. Never did. The nicest thing you can do for her is put her out of her misery before he does something truly stupid, like date her.”
“Not true.” I stood and reached for the beer.
“It is.” Gavin glanced my way and pushed the cocktail toward Eric, giving him his full attention and ignoring me. “You see, Barman, I’ve been there, hung up on a Rousseau girl, and it’s an infatuation like no other.” He glanced away, then cleared his throat.
My grip tightened on the lager despite the condensation quickly gathering on the glass. I wasn’t the only Ellis who didn’t talk about those summers.
“But the Rousseau sisters always had the look-but-don’t-touch vibe, and a touch-them-and-I’ll-ruin-you mother, and while I let that torch burn bright and hot before letting it go, Hudson here still carries his, and now that she’s been back in town a couple of weeks?” He flared his hands and made a sound like a bomb. “Hudson is the Death Star, and that woman is Luke, about to blow his ass up.”
“That’s a shitty analogy.” I took another drink and contemplated the mileage between here and Allie’s. I’d had maybe a third of a beer all night. I was safe to drive.
“Is it, though?” Gavin cocked his head to the side. “We could go with you’re the Titanic and she’s the iceberg, or she’s Oppenheimer and you’re the test site in New Mexico—”
“Point taken.” I reached for my wallet.
“Wait, did you say you had a thing for Allie too?” Eric stepped off his stool.
“God no. Her older sister. Never Allie.” Gavin glanced at me, years of history flickering over his gaze in that millisecond before the corner of his mouth rose in a smirk. “Allie was way too young for me. Too tightly wound. Pretty little thing—”
My spine stiffened.
“—but too prim, way too proper, too quiet, way too mousy—”