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)
Matt’s expression changes with the tilt of his lips, and he lifts his hand in a tentative wave. Like I wasn’t a colossal bitch to him this morning. Not that he didn’t deserve it. And I deserve an explanation. The explanation I told myself I didn’t need. But that was before. And now I’m living a whole new reality. Even if what happened in October has suddenly shuffled lower on my shit list.
He makes his way toward me, unwinding a blue woolen scarf from his neck.
“Hey,” he says, reaching the edge of the booth of amber velvet. It’s U shaped and deep, and I’ve chosen to sit here for privacy. I also planned to arrive early to gain the high ground. I just hadn’t planned to be here most of the day.
I’m sitting in the deepest part of the booth. The power spot, I guess. I decided it wouldn’t do to sit opposite him. Getting lost in those eyes. Being tempted by the tiniest quirk of his smile. But mostly, I’m not sure I want to see what’s on his face as I break the news.
But I couldn’t keep it to myself. He has the right to know, though I tried to persuade myself otherwise.
“Hi.” I resist the urge to stick my finger into my hair to loosen this bun. My head is thundering, the thing having pulled tighter and tighter as the day passed. But at least I’m no longer wearing dark glasses like a desperate-to-be-seen C-list celebrity. Someone ought to make a concealer for swollen, cried-out eyes. They could patent it and make a fortune.
“Can I get you another drink?” he asks with fake cheer.
I give a short shake of my head. Ow. “You go on ahead, though.” I tighten my hand around my cup of tea, my other gripping my coat under the table as though I’m ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
“Right. I will.” He strips off his dark woolen coat and drops it to one end of the booth, the smell of rain and wool and cologne assaulting my nose. I didn’t even know rain had a smell. “Back in a bit.”
“Better make it a double,” I mutter once he’s out of earshot. “Lord knows one of us should be drinking.” A pain shoots up my left wrist, and I realize my fist is clenched. It’s a physical manifestation of stress that hearkens back to my childhood. What might be a natural reflex to a developing nervous system gave me carpal tunnel more than once. The fact that I’m feeling like this now—again—makes my eyeballs prickle.
No, and hell no. I’m not going there again.
I cried myself dry a long time ago.
I’m usually much better at keeping my emotions at arm’s length. I am not enjoying my visit to the past, and these reactions feel alien after all this time. Overwhelm is nobody’s friend.
“Name five things you can see.”
An old therapist’s advice comes floating back to me. I’ve had my fair share of therapy on my way to becoming the person I am today. It helped me rationalize my mother’s shortcomings.
Not so much my own, though.
I push the insidious thought aside in favor of finding my five things. The rain on the windowpane, sparkling like diamonds. My shaking hands, the earthenware cup they’re wrapped around. My coat by my leg and that ass and those dark jeans.
A laugh bubbles up inside me. Oh, the irony of a lingering attraction. I force myself to move on.
“Four things you can hear.” Music. The ambient kind that gives off good drinking vibes. The chink of glasses, the buzz of my phone with an incoming message I don’t want to read. Matt’s chuckle as the bartender flirts with him.
Touch. Three more things. My cooling cup, my forehead slightly damp to the touch. The smooth wooden tabletop.
Deep breath.
Smell. Two things. My herby tea and the hint of liquor long ingrained into the walls.
Taste. One more thing to concentrate on. I lift my cup and grimace at the tepid liquid.
He turns, his expression open. Why not guarded?
My leg begins to bounce, but I force it not to, jamming my hand under it as he pulls out his wallet. Good Lord, that is an ass made for jeans. I wonder if he has a personal shopper. Whether in a tux, a suit, or jeans and a fine-knit sweater—and I’m digging those rugged worker’s boots—he probably always looks like he’s just stepped from the pages of a magazine.
As he taps his card to pay for his drink, I snatch up my phone and pretend to be engrossed in it, rotating my aching wrist out of sight. But there’s nothing I need to see on my screen—the earlier text was just junk. I have no markets to watch, no reports to read, no calls to return. What the heck will I do with myself?