Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Her lashes sweep down over her eyes for a brief moment before she faces me, all hard determination. “That’s different.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“It is, because I saw it happen. Killian doesn’t know and doesn’t need to know. It will only hurt him now.”
Tightness pulls at my shoulders, and I roll them. “I buried that night deep within me, because I couldn’t stand it—”
“Rye—”
“You don’t understand. My dad is a cheater.”
At the sound of her indrawn breath, I give her a wry, tired look. “Always was. It hurts my mom and pisses me off. It ruined our family.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, and I know it’s out of sympathy. Surprisingly, the sentiment warms me.
“I am too.” I shrug. “Mainly, I’m sorry my mom can’t get out of the cycle of forgiving him.”
“I wouldn’t,” she blurts out then pinks. “Forgive someone for cheating on me, I mean.”
“No,” I agree with a weak smile. “I suspect they’d search for the body and never find it.”
Brenna huffs in amusement, but her lips pinch. “You haven’t forgiven him either.”
Not a question.
“I’m trying. He’s a good dad—aside from that. He’s always been supportive of me. I think that bothers me most of all, how he can be so good in one aspect of his life and so crap in another.”
“I guess we’re all flawed in some way or other.”
“I don’t want to be like him,” I spit out.
Brenna considers me for a long moment. “I don’t want to be like my parents either.”
“I can’t be…” Damn my tight shoulders and stiff-ass neck. “I like sex, women, having fun…” This is coming out well. Fuck. I clear my throat. “But I’d never be a cheater. Never.”
I want her to understand I wouldn’t do that to her. Maybe she’s been afraid to trust me in that way. After all, she witnessed my worst moment and came to the worst conclusion.
Pride shaken, I fist my hands and turn away.
“I believe you,” she says, softer now. “I should have believed it from the start. But I didn’t know you like I do now. You have a sense of honor and loyalty that shines bright, Ryland. I admire it. So much.”
Shocked, I wrench around, my mouth falling open.
But she isn’t looking my way. With a sigh, she shakes her head ruefully. “I’m guessing we’ll simply make our own types of mistakes.”
“I don’t want us to be a mistake, Bren.”
It’s her turn to be shocked. She blinks, her pretty mouth falling open. But it’s only for a second, then she visibly collects herself, and I’m faced with the woman who smoothly runs our public relations. “We won’t. We’ll be careful.”
Careful. Like I’m a campaign to be managed. Disappointment is a kick to the gut. But she’s only playing by the rules we both set down. That’s the way Brenna is. She makes a plan and sticks to it. If I want more, I have to spell it out, make demands. Right now, I’m too drained to do anything other than take her hand and give her a reassuring smile, because I know she’s drained as well. We’ve exposed too much of ourselves too quickly.
“Come on. There’s a fashion exhibit on high couture that has your name all over it.”
“I don’t know if I like how much you get me.”
Get used to it, sweetheart. I intend to get a lot more.
Chapter Twenty
Brenna
Work is the last place I want to be. It occurs to me that I’ve begun to resent going to work more and more lately. I thought being with Rye would end this restlessness within me. I thought this hole inside of me was about needing a good sexual release. But it’s not.
At least not entirely. Yes, I am sexually satisfied. And, yes, that’s great. But it isn’t the quick fix I’d been hoping for.
All morning I am bombarded with texts from the guys, texts from Jules and Sophie. Questions about the band. Questions from their record label. Questions from my staff about fan clubs, concert passes, upcoming events. It’s all about the band. All the time. But nothing from Rye.
I have to fight the compulsion to pull out my phone and check. I haven’t spoken to him since we went to the museum two days ago. It’s as though we both needed to pull back and regroup. But he’s been on my mind ever since.
God, how could I have gotten things so wrong? On the surface, the whole incident between Rye and my aunt appeared clean-cut. I’m horrified to know how it really happened. But I can’t find it in myself to judge my aunt. The whole thing makes me tired now. And unsettled.
It’s as if the smooth foundations of my life have a hairline fracture that’s slowly spreading out in all directions. I want to fall to my knees, plaster over those cracks and get on with my life. But I can’t. I’m changing, my well-ordered plans shifting into something uncontrollable.