Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“All right,” was all Abby said. “I guess we should get done here then, right?”
I blinked at her. “That’s it? You’re dropping it?”
“Am I not supposed to?” She stared at me for a moment. “I mean…You seem happy. He’s dropped his attempt to buy the bar, and you’re still spending time together. I’m good to play the evil best friend if you want, but I feel like it’s a further waste of my time.”
“A further waste of…Never mind.” Shaking my head, I dropped it. Abby had her reasons for just about everything and I wasn’t going to argue it further.
If she was deciding to do a one-eighty on her feelings regarding him, I was going to run with it.
Abby laughed and smacked the bar. “Come on. Lover boy is waiting.” She made smooching noises as she continued on her glass-collecting mission.
“I’m in charge here,” I murmured, turning away from her. “I shouldn’t have to take this crap.”
“I love you!” she shouted, clinking glasses together.
Ugh…
Twenty-Seven
Damien
The silent hours that passed before the driveway crunched under the tires of Dahlia’s Jaguar were long and painful. The echoes of the past had swarmed me, all the memories coming to the forefront of my mind as I waited.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked loudly. It screamed out every second, each more aching than the last.
For the first time in years, I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to talk about my past, about the decisions that the people in my family had made. About why my father held the belief that women were weak. About why I carried such a dull pain with me almost constantly. About why I sometimes struggled to sleep.
About the scar that hugged my eye, the same one Dahlia traced with her gorgeous eyes every time she thought I wasn’t paying attention to her.
Unfortunately for her, I always paid attention to her.
It was addictive. Just like her.
“Hello?” Her voice tentatively sounded through my house.
“In the kitchen,” I called back.
The sound of heels clicking echoed through the silence. She entered the room with a groan, slumping a small, black backpack-style bag onto the table in front of me. “I think there are matchsticks in my eyes.”
“Busy night?” I asked, eyebrow raised.
“You could say that.” She grabbed the backpack back to her. “Let me go change, okay?”
I smiled as she turned and disappeared before I had any say in the matter. She looked absolutely exhausted thanks to the dark circles that shadowed beneath her eyes, and that gave me pause.
Was tonight the right night to tell her everything? She needed to sleep. The heartbreak of my family would still be there in the morning.
The tapping of my fingers against the countertop was dull. Was I saying that because I was putting it off? Perhaps. It was anybody’s guess. What I really needed was to get it over and done with.
“All right,” Dahlia said, padding barefoot into the kitchen. “Let’s go get comfy.” She flounced off into the living room before I could say anything—again.
I followed her in there. “Are you sure? You look tired.”
She spun, grabbed my hand and literally yanked me down onto the sofa with her. “I’m fine. You promised me.”
“I’m not sure I said those exact words.”
“Stop being awkward.”
“Now you know how I feel every time we have a conversation.”
She pursed her lips, but she was clearly hiding a smile by the twitching of them. “Stop it.”
I laughed, but it was hollow. Hollow right down to my goddamn gut. “Where do you want me to start?”
“At the end. That’s obviously the logical place.”
She was using sarcasm to bait me into spitting it out. Could she see how this made me feel? I was thirty fucking years old, and here I was, feeling like a damn kid in front of a haunted house.
Hell, the woman sitting in front of me was younger than me, but she was stronger, too. She’d lost her dad just months ago and was able to deal with that pain already.
Me? Years later, and I was still fucking struggling.
Dahlia’s indigo-blue eyes searched my face. Her soft, warm stare traced every inch of it until she lifted her gaze to mine. “You really have never spoken about it before, have you?”
“Never. Not once.”
“Even when you were younger?”
“Nobody ever cared enough to listen.” My words were bitter—twisted and angry. But the truth. So much the fucking truth.
“I care,” she whispered, brushing her thumb over my jaw.
I knew it. I believed her.
“My parents were childhood sweethearts. Like yours.” I pulled my gaze from her and rested it on the bay window. The curtains weren’t fully shut so the light from the half-moon crept in, illuminating the room with the help of the dim table lamp. “They met in high school but broke up during college. They didn’t exactly reconnect in the most normal way—my mom auditioned for a job at Goldies when Dad was first opening it.”