Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
I snort in agreement. “More than this college student can afford anytime soon.”
“And your mom wouldn’t loan you the money.”
“Nope.”
“Maybe it’s too much for her.”
“That’s not it.” A sigh escapes. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but she won’t even entertain giving me a small part of it until I can figure out what to do. She wants me to sell. Says it’s ridiculous to sit on that much money and not take it.”
“Well . . .” August scratches the back of his neck. “She’s not wrong to want that for you. Not entirely,” he amends at my dark look. “You’d be set for life.”
“My life is just beginning.” I throw my arms wide, nearly hitting him in the process. “She doesn’t know what I’m capable of. I could do . . . things!”
I have no clue how to make that much money a year.
“Of course you can.”
“Don’t patronize me, Luck.”
“I’m not!”
My lips purse, but I accept his word. “She wants me to take the money, invest in my future. But that house?” Tears well in my eyes. “It’s been in my family since it was built. Oscar-winning screenplays were written there.”
My great-grandparents had been screenwriters in Hollywood’s Golden Age.
“It’s the only true and safe home I’ve known. Is it so wrong that I want to keep it?”
August’s voice turns gentle. “No, Penelope. It’s not wrong at all.”
“Just hopeless. God.” I set my head in my hands and sigh. “You want to know what’s really messed up?”
“Lay it on me, Sweets.”
“I am ridiculous! I have a problem most people would kill for.”
August hums, and then takes a massive bite of his sandwich, frowning as he chews. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before talking. “Thing is, Pen, there’s always someone who has it better and worse than you. Doesn’t make what you’re feeling any less real or any less true. You love something that’s in danger of being taken from you. Don’t shame yourself for that.”
My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly before taking a bite of my sandwich, if only to do something other than cry. I don’t know what I expected of August, maybe for him to placate me, or tell me to buck up. But his simple understanding squeezes my heart in a way that has me wanting to turn and ask for a hug, and maybe bawl on his shoulder for an hour.
“Well,” I say when I finish chewing. “That’s my confessional for the night. What about you?” I turn his way. “Anything got you in a mood? Other than failing basic balance while attempting the Funky Chicken, that is.”
“Fucking hell.” He winces and ducks his head before tilting it back to scowl up at the ceiling. “Has anyone not seen those forsaken clips?”
“If they haven’t, they probably will eventually.”
“Oh, thank you. No really, your sympathy overwhelms me.” He’s fighting a smile, however.
I fight one as well. “I figured you’d resent sympathy.”
He studies me with those silver eyes. “Yeah, I would.” Then he brightens and nudges my shoulder with his. “But you can still offer to kiss my hurts and make it better.”
“I’m not going to fall for that one.”
“Damn it.”
Grinning, I wipe my hands on my napkin. “Seriously, August. You okay?”
“Of course.” He waves his hand idly as if to bat the question away. There’s something going on with him, but I can’t see past the barriers he’s put up.
When I don’t respond, he quirks a brow. “What would you do,” he asks, “if I said I wasn’t?”
It’s my turn to frown; it’s not a question I expected. I don’t like to think I’m ill prepared to truly help someone who really needs it. But how? It’s one thing to want to; it’s another to actually succeed.
“I suppose, I’d just listen. I don’t know if that’s the right thing, but I would, you know. I’d listen for as long as you like.”
Straight brows draw together. His mouth opens then abruptly shuts. August turns more fully my way. His hand lifts as though he might reach out but then falls to this thigh and grips it.
For a second he simply stares down at his hand, clutching his thigh tightly. Then he smiles, a small, gentle thing that has me flushing under my shirt. “I’m okay now, Penelope.”
“Okay . . . good.” It stutters out because, for a moment, I got the feeling he wanted to say something else. “So long as you’re sure.”
His smile grows, morphing into the one I’ve seen him give during interviews.
“Nothing like a good late-night sandwich to change one’s perspective,” he says with cheek. “Right?”
Oddly disappointed, I smile back, with my very nice teeth. “Right.”
And that is that.
Six
Pen
Strangely, I feel hungover when I arrive at the airport. I hadn’t had much to drink at the Lucks’ house, and I went to bed right after my sandwich with August. Even so, my head is muzzy and my body sluggish as I pull my carry-on toward the check-in kiosk. The airport is fairly empty, and I’m hoping for an equally empty flight so I can sleep off whatever this crappy feeling is.