Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
I drink some more to shake off the uneasy feeling that accompanies the realization that Arsène is never going to be in the market for love. “Maybe I should go back to Mulberry Creek.”
“And do what?” He eyes me mockingly, that taunting smile ready on his face. “Milk cows?”
“First of all, we don’t even have cows.” I pin him with a look. “I’ll have my family, my friends, my circle. I’ll have . . . Rhys.”
“Who’s Rhys?”
“My ex-boyfriend. We broke up when I moved to New York. We were really good together. He’s a nice guy.”
Arsène rolls his eyes. “Please kill me if the first adjective that springs to mind to describe me by my ex-girlfriend is nice.”
I laugh. “Being nice is a great trait.”
“That will not get you in the history books.” He salutes me with his drink.
“Not everyone wants to get into those books,” I point out.
He makes a disgusted face. “Oxygen wasters.”
This makes me laugh. “I don’t hate you quite as much as I did weeks ago,” I admit.
“Well, then here’s some food for thought.” He pivots toward me. “You broke up with Rhys for a reason. Never forget that.”
The brandy decanter gets emptier as the night progresses. Arsène brings over the file, and we go through the pictures together again, but this time, it’s not as gut-crushingly terrible to watch as the first time around. At some point, the doorbell chimes. He ordered food. Soul food. My favorite. Fried pork chops, collard greens, cornbread, mac ’n’ cheese, and apricot jam tart. No sign of a peach cobbler. He really does think of everything.
We tuck in, washing it down with lots of water, and then we drink again.
I get brazen. Maybe even a little reckless. After all, this is Arsène. He will never love me. Not that I want him to. But he’ll never betray me either.
Because he’ll never be mine.
“I have a confession to make.” I tuck my hands between my thighs.
“Is it as big a bombshell as the peach-cobbler one? My heart can only take so much.” He places his hand over his sculpted chest.
“You have to promise not to tell anyone.” I ignore his jest. I think I’m slurring, which is an excellent reason not to tell him what’s on my mind. But I’m heavy with food and easy with alcohol, and the mood between us is so different than it was at the drive-in. Tonight, he put on a different air. The best friend one. The guy who can be trusted. And it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to.
“You have my word. Unless it’s really juicy—then out I go with it to The Enquirer.”
Groaning, I shove at his shoulder, hoping it’ll stir something inside him to prompt him to kiss me. No dice. He is different tonight. Cocksure, as always, but also reserved.
“I’m probably infertile.”
The words explode between us. Taking a breath, I continue.
“Well, not probably. More like certainly. Remember when you saw me in Italy? I was a whole blubbering mess in the bathroom.”
My ears get hot when I think about that moment. He nods slowly, staring at me.
“That was because I had a bad argument with Paul about it.”
“I see.” He strokes his chin. “That first time we talked about them—in the New Amsterdam, remember?—you seemed to have had a drop-of-a-penny moment when I told you when they started having an affair. Why was that?”
Swallowing, I look down at my feet. “Because it was around the time Paul and I had spoken about my possibly having fertility issues. It felt like he gave up on me and moved on with her.”
Arsène doesn’t say anything for a while, almost like he hasn’t heard me. This was clearly a mistake. I get embarrassed waiting around for him to reply, so I stand up.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Second door to your left in the hallway.”
After emptying my bladder, I return to the living room to find him sitting in the same position on the couch. I regret telling him about my infertility. I don’t know what I expected—but it wasn’t complete apathy.
“I’m happy for you,” he says from his spot on the couch.
I blink, thinking maybe I misheard him. “Happy for me?”
He nods.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not really heartbroken about Paul. You’re heartbroken over the way you two ended your relationship, and that he didn’t love you enough to accept you despite what you view as your imperfection. That’s an excellent starting point. You’ll move on, find someone else. Someone who realizes the value of a person is measured not by their reproductive system and have a good life. Probably with Nice Rhys or a guy of his brand. Paul will become a distant memory, an anecdote.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I shake my head. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Why?” He watches me grabbing my little clutch bag and my phone.