Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“The things we do for family,” I say with a sheepish smile.
“Exactly, that’s exactly right.” He takes a long drink. “But you know what? It’s going to be alright. We’re going to get along, right? I mean, I guess we sort of have to.”
“We could always get divorced in a few years,” I offer like I’m kidding, even though the idea had occurred to me more than once.
He snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, fucking right. My parents would cut off my nose before they let me get divorced. We’re Irish Catholic, and not the progressive modern types. There’s no such thing as divorce.”
I don’t bother to tell him that his opinion isn’t the only one that matters, but I decide to bite my tongue instead. Because he’s right, that’s a crazy idea and would have all kinds of knock-on effects, most of them really bad.
“I could always fake my own death. Or maybe run away from home one night. Or heck, we could run away together and fake our deaths.”
“I like it. Stage a car crash off a cliff.” He mimes an explosion. “It’d be easy.”
“Where would you go if you had to hide out somewhere?”
“North, probably. Maine or up in Canada. What about you?”
“West to California. If I’m going into hiding, you better believe I’m doing it somewhere with good weather.”
“Too bad we’re stuck with each other.” He grins at me with all his boyish charm, and I feel absolutely nothing.
Finn’s nice enough. He can be funny when he tries, even though he’s a little self-absorbed and doesn’t seem all that interested in me.
But there’s absolutely zero spark between us. I had hoped for something, maybe a little glimmer, a slight attraction, anything to build a foundation. A shared sense of humor. A love for the same music. Anything at all.
Nothing’s there.
He’s not even that bad, which almost makes it worse. I don’t hate him, I’m just bored, and we’re not clicking. I’m trying to find some common ground, but we’re both treading through quicksand. The second it feels like we’re coming together, I’m sucked straight back down.
I’ve had boyfriends in the past. Not many of them, but I know what it feels like. I don’t expect a head-over-heels falling, that’s for sure, but there’s always been some magic bit of chemistry. The more I talk with Finn, the more I think he’s decent and that we’ll never, ever be anything more than friends.
Which is horrifying. I almost wish I could hate him. At least then we could live separate lives and interact as little as possible.
Instead, Finn is just blah.
Good blah. But still, blah.
The more he talks, the more I think about a future with him. One where I’m constantly avoiding my husband while also trying not to hurt his feelings. He’ll treat me well. I’m relatively sure of that. Which is a relief. Except he’s going to fill the void in our relationship with a never-ending string of mistresses, and what’ll I get? A charity and a business?
God forbid a woman takes on a lover.
The more I think about it, the more I consider his brother Cormac. That weird moment we had out front. The way he stared at me with that disconcerting, straight-up terrifying intensity, like he wanted to dissect my muscles and peel the skin from my bones. He’s hot as hell in a murder-you-and-fuck-you sort of way.
Does it make me an insane person if I almost prefer the psychopath to the boring one?
That’s just my desperation talking.
Finn’s going to be a good husband, and that should be a blessing.
But after an hour, I have to get out of here. “Dad said dinner’s soon, right?” I pretend to check my watch as if I didn’t know exactly what time it was. “We should go join up with everyone else.”
Finn seems as relieved as I feel. “Sounds good to me. And hey, this was a good conversation. I think we can make this work, right?”
“Right.” I beam at him while inwardly I’m screaming. Because this is the worst-case scenario.
Not terrible enough that Adriano will let me wriggle out of this. But nowhere near good, either.
We get up, and he goes in for a hug while I stick out my hand for a handshake, and we end up sort of awkwardly switching between the two and laughing like morons, and my god, I want to jump out a window. Finn downs another beer, and then we’re out of there, and I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next twenty-four hours with this guy in the house, much less the rest of my life.
Chapter 7
Bianca
Ikeep staring at that rose.
It doesn’t smell like my ghost anymore. Like always, the scent faded away. But its memory still lingers. Sometimes I can close my eyes, and it’s like I can taste my ghost on my tongue, the memory of his strange scent seared straight onto my brainstem.