Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
What my reflection doesn’t show is my aching abs. And a heart full of regret. Not that last night happened but that she’s not here.
The perfect ending to a one-night stand, some would say, naming no names. Fin and Oliver. So why do I feel so hollow?
I didn’t get to tell her the truth. Silver lining or a fuckup?
The latter, I think, because that also means I didn’t get the chance to explain the rest. The rightness of being in her company. The connection I felt.
Did she feel it too?
I guess not, or else I wouldn’t be standing naked and alone, staring out through the rain.
Chapter 12
Matt
“Uncle Matty, you don’t got the right color hair for Prince Charmin.”
“Charming, Clodagh,” Leticia, my sister, corrects as she straightens her daughter’s sparkly crown.
“The other stuff is toilet paper,” I say, plucking at a cheap gold-colored button on my chest. “Which I suppose is apt, considering I feel like something you wipe your arse on. I mean, what are these meant to be?” I demand, now flicking the gold fringing dangling from my shoulder.
“Epaulets, you heathen.” My sister gives a pitying shake of her head. “Prince Charming is obviously some sort . . . of military man.”
I look down at the pale-blue velvet frock coat, complete with gold braiding, belt, and satin sash. It’s an outfit Sebastien, our younger brother, promised he’d wear when he took Clodagh to the theater before gallivanting off to Spain last minute. The tickets were supposed to be my contribution to the outing! I didn’t think for one minute I’d end up dressing like a pantomime prince and taking her there myself. I must be soft in the head.
“Some sort of feckin’ tool,” I mutter as I eye the matching white gloves distastefully. “Ow! What was that for?” I clutch my bicep after Letty catches me a good one with her pincerlike fingers.
“For behaving like a tool.”
“Did you see that, Clo? One of the ugly sisters just walloped Prince Charmin. What do you reckon—off with her head?”
“Mommy’s head isn’t ugly.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No! Not Aunt Lo’s and not Aunt Lou-Lou’s, neither!” she says, using her nicknames for my younger twin sisters, Lola and Lucía. “And you gotta potty mouth, Uncle Matty.” Clo’s brows pull down.
“For saying feck? Feck isn’t swearing. Prince Charmin wouldn’t swear.”
Clo gives me a doubtful stare.
“It’s Charming.” Letty’s hiss is delivered through gritted teeth. “Which is something you know nothing about. Honestly, Matt, do you think I don’t have enough problems without having to police your language where there are impressionable ears?”
I glance down at a confused Clodagh as she gingerly touches her tiny shell-like ears. “Our own father cursed like a sailor—in two languages—and we turned out all right.”
“Debatable.” Letty’s gaze slices my way, looking me pointedly up, then down.
“Come on, sis,” I cajole. “’Tis a long way from smashed avocado on toast we were raised.”
“True,” she reluctantly agrees. “Gentle parenting back then meant being threatened with a slipper rather than a shoe.”
“Verás como saque la zapatilla!” I say, impersonating our father as I slap my hand with an invisible slipper. Letty laughs.
“Who are you pretending to be?” Clo asks, her cute little face perplexed.
“Your grandpa.”
“My lelo wouldn’t hit anyone with a thlipper!”
“A slipper?”
Letty elbows me in the ribs.
“The sins of the parent are not visited upon their grandchildren, obviously.” I send Letty a speaking look.
“Lelo did smack Uncle Matty with a slipper when he was a kid because he was a terrible tearaway.”
“I think you must be confusing me with Hugo.”
That puta, she replies silently, smiling as she mouths the insult.
I slap the gloves down on the console table. “Did you just call the apple of our mother’s eye a very bad name?” To be fair, Letty has a point. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, Hugo is yet to grow out of his whoring phase.
My heart gives a sudden duplicitous pang. What I wouldn’t give to be in that position again. Whore. Pretend or not. For one woman only. One woman I’ll likely never see again.
It’s been ten weeks nearly to the day since I woke in that suite at the Pierre alone. Sixty-nine days since the best sex of my life. One thousand six hundred sixty-four hours (give or take) since I last held Ryan in my arms, sated and glad, as we’d finally fallen into bed.
We screwed on almost every conceivable surface, from the table to the bed, the bed to the shower, and the shower to the sofa. And against the window overlooking a purple-skied predawn Central Park. I played the role until my abs hurt, but it didn’t feel like pretend.
The morning after, it was like her absence had left me hollow, and somehow, I’m still feeling that loss weeks later.
I give myself a mental slap. Fucking woolgathering again. What-ifs and maybes don’t make a bit of difference to my current reality. My current predicament. My current state of dress. You can hit the big time. Be touted as one of the top forty under forty. Be a mover and a shaker, see your own face staring at you from the front of Forbes. But none of that will get you out of a stupid feckin’ frock coat when it comes to family.