Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
He nods. “No, you haven’t made the offer.”
“There you go,” I say, echoing his earlier words.
He takes a sip of his water. “And I happen to know why you haven’t made the offer.”
I play with the stem of my wineglass. “You do, huh?”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “I do.”
I suppress an eye roll. “Care to enlighten me?”
“It’s not because you don’t find me attractive.”
I nod. “Sure, you’re attractive. Gorgeous, even.”
He smiles. “So are you.”
“Thank you. But that’s not telling me why you think I haven’t offered to take you to bed.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“You obviously overestimate your own allure, Stephen, if you think I would have made the offer after knowing you for a mere twenty-four hours.”
He narrows his gaze. “You think so?”
“I do.”
“I think there’s a scenario where you might have made the offer.”
God, he’s maddening. Does he truly think he’s God’s gift to women? Boy, did my radar screw me over. I thought he was a nice attractive guy who would make a good wedding date. Not bore me to tears with his Zen talk and then basically tell me there’s a scenario where I might take him to bed. If it ever had a chance of happening, he’s blown it now.
“I can guarantee you there is no scenario, but you’ve got my curiosity piqued.”
He chuckles. “Good. That makes you all the more challenging.”
I draw in a breath. “Stephen, let’s get one thing straight. I am not going to invite you to my bed. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Are we clear?”
He laughs again, damn him.
“We’re very clear, because you’re already fucking someone here.”
I gulp. “Excuse me?”
“Tabitha, I read auras.” He sets down his fork like he’s just dropped a cosmic truth. “And yours? Yours is tangled up in stormy red and smoky gray. That’s sacral and heart chakra chaos, babe. Which means lust and confusion. And someone here is lighting you up like a bonfire.”
I stare at him, stunned silent for half a second. “That’s ridiculous.”
He gives me that maddening, knowing look—the kind only smug spiritual types can pull off. “Is it?”
I cross my arms. “Stephen, reading auras is not a science.”
“Nope,” he says, unfazed. “It’s more accurate.”
I narrow my eyes. “You think I’m sleeping with someone.”
“I think you’re not sleeping,” he counters. “Not well, anyway. And someone here is the reason you’re spinning. I don’t need to know who. That doesn’t matter. All I know is that it isn’t me, and your energy is leaking all over the place.”
I sputter for a minute before I can form an articulate sentence. “Maybe I’m just stressed. My best friend is getting married, I’m stuck in these heels, and these chairs have no back support. Plus I’m a med student. We’re perpetually stressed.”
He leans in. “Or maybe it’s because you hooked up with someone you can’t have. Someone who left a mark.”
My stomach tightens, and I hate that it does.
He catches it. Because of course he does. “Ah,” he says, softly. “There it is.”
I push back from the table a little. “You know what? Maybe you are good at reading people.”
“I didn’t say it to shame you,” he says. “I said it so you’d stop pretending I’m the problem.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length all night like I’m going to ruin something. Like I’m the threat. But you’ve already been burned, haven’t you?”
I look away.
He lets the silence stretch for a beat. “Tabitha, I like you. I’m not trying to sleep with you. I just think you should stop punishing yourself for wanting someone who made you feel something. Even if it was messy.”
I exhale slowly. “I didn’t ask for therapy, Stephen.”
“You didn’t have to.” He grins again. “Your aura did.”
God.
I could slap him. He’s saying terrible things to me. The kind of things you don’t say to your wedding date.
And the worst part?
He’s right on the fucking money.
This evening—and this weekend—can’t end soon enough.
Thirty-Six
Henry
After the dinner plates are cleared, Sage stands and taps her glass with a fork, flashing that trademark grin that always means trouble. The room quiets instantly. She has that effect on people. I sit back in my chair, nursing my whiskey, watching her take center stage like she was born for it.
“I’m Sage,” she says, lifting her glass, “twin sister to the bride and proud member of the Angie Simpson Fan Club—lifetime member, by the way. No dues required, just an unshakable belief that she’s an amazing human with more empathy and compassion than anyone I know.” She glances toward the table where Aunt Melanie sits with Uncle Joe, who’s still bald from his treatment but looks strong as an ox. “Except for Aunt Melanie, of course.”
Light laughter fills the air.
“My sister has always been the serious one. The focused one. The one with a color-coded planner and a backup plan for her backup plan.” She taps on her chest. “Me? I was the storm. She was the calm. I had my head in the clouds while her feet were planted firmly on the ground.”