Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I’m about to apologize again and promise that I’ll do my best to respect them, as well—even if I want a better, easier life for her—when she adds, “But maybe that’s not necessarily a good thing.”
I arch a brow. “No?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve been thinking a lot this week about time and that thing…” She bites her lip, searching for a word. “You know, that thing where matter stays stuck in a pattern unless it’s disturbed by an external force?”
“Inertia?” I supply.
“Yes! That.” She nods, seeming to chew on the concept for a moment. “I’ve been stuck in the inertia zone for a while, longer than I realized until you came along. I guess I needed an external force to get me thinking about the big picture again.” She squeezes my hand. “So…thanks.”
“I’ll be your external force anytime,” I whisper, wanting to tell her so much more.
I want to tell her that I don’t want to say goodbye.
That I don’t want a future without her in it.
That I’m in love with her.
But it’s our turn at the coat check and I hand over our claim tickets and a ten-dollar bill, instead.
When we’re outside the ballroom with our coats, Sully loops her arm through mine, and whispers, “Take me upstairs?”
“Always,” I say, wishing it was a promise I could keep.
chapter 17
GERTIE
Something’s up with Weaver.
I felt it even before our little fight in the coat check line.
The way he looked at me after he saw my photos, the way he held me on the dance floor, his lips brushing my forehead as we swayed to the haunting melody drifting through the air…
It was all so damned bitter-sweet.
He feels it, too, how special we could be. I’d bet my hands on it. But I’m just as sure that he’s about to end things. I can feel him pulling back, looking for reasons to bail.
And he won’t have to look far.
There’s the age gap, the wealth gap, the lifestyle differences, our families, the distance between us once he returns home…we have at least half a dozen obstacles that would make a long-term relationship very difficult. If he’s thinking it’s time to cut bait before this “casual” thing gets any less casual than it is already, now is the time.
But for some reason, I’m not afraid.
Something’s up with me, too, something that’s been shifting the past few days and finally slid into place somewhere between having my palm read and holding Weaver’s gaze across the table at the best meal of my life.
I love this man. I love him with every piece of my heart. And despite all the times I’ve watched love crash and burn in my life, that’s the least scary thing in the world.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve only known him a week. Being with him feels so right and real, not scary at all. Even if he leaves, I’ll never regret falling in love with him. It’s the best thing ever, like the world is suddenly in technicolor and every beautiful thing is more beautiful, because I get to share them with him, my Ice Prince.
Though now I know he isn’t nearly as cool and untouchable as he pretends to be.
As he taps his phone to the sensor on the door of our room, I study his profile, seeing him with new eyes. He isn’t cold. He’s one of the most passionate people I know. He cares so much more than he lets on and is more vulnerable than he’d like the world to believe.
The sensor hums and he pushes on the handle, pausing with the door cracked a sliver to glance my way. “Yes?”
I smile. “Nothing. I just like looking at you.”
He doesn’t return my grin, and his tone as he says, “I like looking at you, too,” sounds like he’s reading the first lines of a eulogy.
Ouch. This is going to hurt. Whether he ends it tonight or waits until he drops me off in Sea Breeze on Sunday, the pain of saying goodbye to the only man I’ve ever loved is going to kill me a little.
But I still don’t want to run. I want to stay and soak up every second with him. If all I’ll ever have of Weaver is memories, then I want as many of them as I can get.
Inside the room, there’s soft jazz music playing on the large, old-fashioned radio by the door. As Weaver empties his pockets on top of the smooth wood, I kick off my heels and wander across the thick carpet, my jaw dropping as I take in the space.
The room is round and enormous, with a high ceiling featuring a tasteful chandelier. In the center of the space, there’s a cream-colored sofa and a coffee table topped with fresh flowers, flanked by two gray lounge chairs. Behind them, closer to the gently sloped wall, is a formal dining table with seats for six, topped with more fresh flowers, and to the left is the entrance to a galley kitchen bigger than my kitchenette at my apartment.