Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Well, I can. But I'd rather not hear their frustration.
I can find a compromise. Something that honors my history, and my mother, without looking like I'm in a costume.
"I have an idea." For the first time, my heart swells at the thought of the wedding. It's perfect. "I think you're going to like it."
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jasmine
Lock works with me immediately. He whisks me to visit with a designer. I explain exactly what I want.
My aunts start issuing orders to the designer—their mom, my grandma—was a seamstress. I let them run with it. As long as they promise they won't tell my dad until it's ready.
The designer promises three days.
I spend most of my time with them. We walk around the Met, take in the sights of Times Square, watch Wicked and Phantom of the Opera.
We eat real New York pizza. Good bagels. Vietnamese iced coffee and pho from a place in Chinatown. Of course, Mai hates it. She hates everything that isn't from her restaurant.
We even manage to bring Dad out one day. And walking around the park with him, seeing him laugh with his sisters-in-law, listening to them reminisce about his and mom's wedding—
It's worth everything.
The quiet dinners I have with Shep are nothing.
The three-day trip we plan to Rome is—
Well, I'm not exactly dreading it. Even if I'd rather not leave my family. Even if I have no idea why we're jumping through these hoops to impress someone as bland as Jeff.
I can't imagine his business partner Marcus is any more interesting.
Why do we care what they think?
I suppose it's above my paygrade.
For once, I don't worry about it. I enjoy the fresh air, the strong tea, the sunny skies.
For once, life is good.
Easy.
And when the dress finally arrives and I bring it to Dad's apartment and show it off to him—
He cries and hugs me and says, "Your mother would be so proud of you."
And I believe him.
If she knew the truth… It's like Quyen said. She would be proud of me for doing the practical thing, even if she secretly wanted me to follow my heart.
But hearts are silly things.
Sometimes, it's better to ignore them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Shepard
"You look awful." Ian holds up his mug as if to toast.
I keep my cup of drip exactly where it is. Awful isn't the right word. Torn in half is more accurate. Too much of me craves Jasmine's company. Every time I think this might get easier, that bastard reminds me it won't.
These constant updates on Marcus and his fucking factory—
Like anyone cares he overcharges tourists in a dozen different cities. Even I know his bars aren't worth what he charges. They're not the single-origin craft chocolate he claims.
They're fine.
Maybe I'm blinded by my hatred.
Maybe I don't know good chocolate anymore. Maybe I'm still incapable of truly savoring food.
That doesn't feel right… I can taste the flavor quality of this coffee. A little burnt, too acidic, not strong enough.
Mediocre.
But I know good is out there. I've had great before.
And Rome…
The thought of sipping espresso as Jasmine shakes her head it's horrible, how do you drink it makes me smile.
Then I think about why we're heading to Rome and—
"It's not lack of sex." His voice is teasing. "I know what you look like when you aren't getting laid. It's not pretty."
He's not wrong. Though getting laid is hardly the language I'd use. "What do you know about pretty?"
"Are you claiming I'm not beautiful?" He lets out an easy laugh.
It's ridiculous. Ian is an attractive man but no one would call him beautiful. Handsome is a much better fit. As Key likes to remind me.
As Lock likes to remind me.
Sometimes, they even argue about the words that best suit Ian. And whether or not the rumors are true. Is he really fixated on virgins? Introducing women to domination? Picking up strippers and offering cash for a night at a hotel?
I never ruin their fun with the truth. Well, what I know of it.
"Jeff sent over your itinerary," Ian says. "Heading to Rome this weekend."
I'm not even going to ask how he knows. Ian always knows. "Do you have a point?"
"It's a romantic city."
"It's the center of Catholicism."
"And pasta."
"And wine." Really, the entire world revolves around booze. Mezcal in Mexico, Souchu in Korea, wine in Italy.
"Should have gone to London," he says.
"So you could woo her?"
"You can't handle a little friendly competition?" He rests his back against the wall. Looks out on the empty office. It's early. Just the two of us here.
We're always the first two here. I'm not sure how he does it. If my information is good—and I'm pretty sure it is—Ian has a lot of late nights. But he always makes it here at the crack of dawn. And he never looks worse for wear.
"A man your age shouldn't strain himself," I tease back.