Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
It’s modern and updated with a feminine and elegant touch, definitely not my taste, but it still holds the classic beauty of the home. A mix of modern and traditional. It’s all Jules.
“Jules,” I call out again, pocketing my keys and wiping my shoes on the mat before stepping onto the plush area rug in the foyer.
“I’m sorry,” I hear Jules say through the hall before I see her. She rounds the corner of what looks like the dining room, both hands on her left ear as she slips an earring into place. She’s barefoot, wearing a navy blue dress with white polka dots and a skinny white leather belt at her waist. She’s gorgeous as always, but something’s off. Something’s wrong although I can’t tell what.
“Everything okay?” I ask carefully, staying right where I am as she bends down to slip on a pair of navy blue heels.
“Fine, just fine.” She shakes out her hair and stands upright, taking a step toward me before turning on her heel and heading back the way she came.
I follow her into the dark dining room. It doesn’t look a damn thing like a dining room, though. The furniture is all here, but stacks of papers cover the table, along with a laptop. On top of the buffet is a printer. She’s using the room as an office.
“Sorry about the mess.” Her voice is dampened as she turns around. “I just need my purse.” She starts to walk past me, making her way to the door, but I put my arm out, my palm against the doorway and wait for her to look at me.
When she does, my heart drops. Her eyes are rimmed in red. Although her makeup is flawless, she can’t hide that she was crying. Not from me.
“What’s wrong?” It comes out as a question, but it’s more of a command.
Her lips are the same dark red shade they were when I first met her and as she parts them, my eyes are drawn to them. She doesn’t say anything though, she merely licks them and turns away from me. For the first time since we met, she’s deliberately disobeying me. Hiding from me.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She pushes my arm away, to leave me and deny me again, but I’m not letting this go. I grip her hip tight enough that she stops and looks at me.
“That’s not how this works. I told you, if you’re with me, you’re with me.” Her hard expression vanishes as I speak to her, replaced by nothing but hurt.
“You don’t own me.” She bites out the words meant to make me mad, meant to destroy the ease between us.
“It’s not about that, Jules.” My voice is low as I release her. She doesn’t walk off; she stands there waiting for my next move. She has to know how good this is between us. She knows whatever the hell it is, I’ll take the burden from her.
“I don’t like seeing you upset.” I bring my lips closer to hers. “Tell me what’s wrong, so I can fix it.” I open my mouth to give her a reason not to push me away, to tell her that she can trust me. That I care for her, to tell her everything I know she wants to hear, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Luckily, I don’t have to.
She moves her hands to her face for only a moment, her expression crumpling before she falls into my chest. She gives in to me so easily. It’s addictive. I wrap my arms around her, feeling her shoulders shake and shudder with a soft sob.
“I didn’t want to cry again,” she says into my chest, muffled by the suit jacket and her hands still covering her face. She inhales deeply as I bend down, running my hand up and down her back in soothing strokes and kiss her hair repeatedly.
“It’s all right, whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.” I don’t know why I promise her something I know I may not be able to accommodate. It’s stupid of me to say it and it gets the reaction it should from an independent woman like Jules. She pushes away from me, wiping under her eyes and taking a shuddering breath.
“It’s nothing you—” she stops to close her eyes and calm herself. “It can’t be fixed.” She glances at a photograph in a silver frame behind her on the wall and then wipes under her eyes again, walking to a large mirror on the far side of the dining room.
I only catch a glimpse of the photograph before turning my back to it. It’s from her wedding day and he’s in it. Obviously. He was her husband after all.
Panic races through me and a sick feeling churns my stomach. “It’s about your husband?”