Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I think this over, because … he’s not wrong.
“Fine,” I say slowly. “I’ll make every attempt to withhold judgment if you do the same.”
“What?” He looks confused and annoyed as hell.
“Ah, look! There’s some emotion. I believe they call that one irritation. But I’m serious. You can’t call me out for judging you without knowing you when you’re doing the exact same thing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” I say, stepping forward. “You’ve made it plain since our very first meeting that you don’t like me. You didn’t like me back then either.”
“You were twenty-one and a brat.”
“I absolutely was,” I say because it’s true. “I was selfish, but let’s not forget that we both got something out of this arrangement, so spare me the sanctimonious lecture. And—” I press on before he can object, “I would like to point out that people are allowed to grow and change. And I have.”
“Have you?” Colin murmurs.
“Yes. Something you might have noticed if you weren’t so busy brooding and avoiding me.”
“All right,” he says affably. “Prove it.”
I frown. “Prove what?”
“That you’ve changed. Prove that you’re not still obsessed with getting your own way and doing the exact opposite of what your parents want just to spite them.”
“That was never—” I break off. “Okay. That was a big part of who I was at that stage in my life. But it’s not anymore.”
“Like I said. Prove it.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “How?”
“Give your parents tonight.”
“Um, did you not hear me agree to the party? Am I not dressed to impress?” I say, gesturing down my body.
“Your mom wants more than for you to simply show up in a tiny dress, and you know it. You had a vision for your life, and that’s fine, but your mom had a vision for your life too.”
“And let me guess. That vision’s come to involve you,” I say drolly.
“Look at that, folks. Smart and pretty.”
I grin. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I think you think you’re pretty.” But his voice isn’t as irritated as usual, and his eyes are almost smiling. I think.
“So what is it you want from me tonight?” I ask. It comes out a little breathy, and I clear my throat. “I mean. How can I prove I’m not the … what was it, twenty-one-year-old brat?”
“I already know you’re not a twenty-one-year-old brat. I’d like to see that you’re not a thirty-one-year-old brat. Do something unselfish.”
He doesn’t say “for once,” but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking it, and it stings. And irritatingly, I want to prove him wrong.
I don’t just want him to like me. I want him to respect me.
“Fine.” I lift my chin. “What do you have in mind?”
“Just for tonight, let your parents think we’re trying to work it out. For real. For one night, let them have their fantasy. That you and I are … you know …”
“Doing it?”
Colin goes still at my words. “I just meant …”
I give him a brotherly pat on the arm and turn to head toward the door. “I know what you meant. For tonight, let them think that I’m trying to be a wife for real. There’s just one problem,” I say, looking over my shoulder as I pick my purse up off the end table.
“What?” he asks warily.
“In order for that to work, you’ll have to prove that you’re trying to be my husband. For real.”
“Which means, what, I follow along behind you and carry your purse?”
“How about a smoldering look across the room?” I suggest. “That way we won’t have to talk to each other, but people will think you can’t wait to drag me home and have your way with me.”
Colin gives me a dark look, and I sigh. “No, no, dear, I said smolder, not glare. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunity to practice at the party.”
Chapter 12
Friday, September 4
“Charlotte, dear, you look exactly the same as I remember.”
“Well played, Mrs. Hicks. I was literally just talking to my mom about how you were my favorite teacher.”
“Oh stop that. Irene, please. We’re both adults now, though one of us is on the uncomfortable side of middle-aged.”
I hadn’t been lying about Mrs. Hicks being my favorite teacher. She’d been young and pretty and fun, and unlike Mrs. Bunting, Mrs. Hicks hadn’t busted my chops for painting my nails during morning announcements.
She’s not so young anymore—neither am I, for that matter. But she’s still fun and pretty, her blond hair neatly styled into an elegant chignon, her makeup perfectly applied to flatter her fifty-something skin. For all her talk about middle age, Mrs. Hicks—Irene—strikes me as the epitome of aging with grace. Her lips don’t have that telltale injection pout, her forehead doesn’t have the perfectly smooth Botox kiss. She looks natural and soft, and I make a mental note that this is how it’s done.