Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“You know why I didn’t bring you home last night, right?” he asks, resting back in his chair. The sun filters over his features, casting shadows and highlights in all the right places.
I pick up my glass and settle back in my chair, too. “I have theories.”
“Are they Aristotelian or Stoicy?”
I laugh.
“Tell me about this party you have to go to,” he says, as if he’s changing subjects. Something tells me he’s not, that this is tied into him sending me home with Jasper.
I don’t want to discuss this at all—not just because it’s with Brooks—but because I don’t want to tell him about how small I feel around my parents, or how humiliated I feel around Seth, or how angry and scared, quite frankly, that I am around Lewis Lemon. I don’t want to discuss any of it. But Brooks knows about the whimsy list, and he didn’t make me feel awkward then. And sharing that with him, even if accidentally, did help …
I blow out a breath as my stomach tightens so much that I wince from the pain. “It’s for my dad’s birthday. My mom is throwing it, so it’ll be exceptional, I’m sure. Jessica Van is known for her epic parties.”
“Sounds like a good time.”
“Sure. If you like conversations about banking and couture, appetizers that you can’t pronounce, and that everyone present will discuss and analyze your appearance and life choices in the following weeks, then it’s a splendid time.”
His brows furrow. “I take it back. Sounds like a shit time.”
I hold out my hands as if to say, told you.
“I’m assuming that you saying fuck it and not going is not an option?” he asks.
“Listen, I’m really trying not to cause Armageddon over a birthday party.”
He laughs. “So, you want to walk into this party feeling …”
Invisible? I frown at how quickly that word came to mind. It’s been my objective of every party I’ve attended since my teenage years. The less you’re seen and the less you say, determines the potential fallout.
But that’s not what I want anymore. I don’t want to be invisible. I want to be seen, as me, and I want to be comfortable whether that’s accepted or not. Whether it disappoints others or not.
My breath wavers as I suck it in, unsure of what’s going to come out of my mouth.
“Those parties fill me with self-doubt,” I say, drifting my fingers across my right thigh. “I feel like I’m at their mercy. I’ve always played my part no matter what it cost me. And it’s not like I don’t want to celebrate my father, because I do. I want to be there for my parents because these things matter to them. But I want to show up and not care what anyone says or thinks, and with a strong voice when I need it.”
“You should always have a strong voice,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” I bring my hand back to the table as an old memory crawls up my neck—half humiliation, half anger. “But sometimes I forget that or can’t find it.”
He starts to speak but stops just short of uttering a word. Instead, he sits up, resting his elbows on the tabletop and watches me.
“As you can tell, I’m tired of doing things other people’s way,” I say, meeting his gaze, challenging him. A burst of power—a sensation that’s new but so welcome—has me lifting my chin.
“This time is different.”
“I’d love to know how.”
“Because I’m going to give you exactly what you want. But I’m going to do it carefully.”
A chill slides down my spine, and I shiver without meaning to. The heat of his stare, mixed with the nonchalance of his tone and definitive words are an intoxicating mixture. “I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”
“You’re the kind of girl who levels my world,” he says smoothly. “And I’m the kind of man who decimates yours. We can do this and it can be a ten-star experience, but we have to do it in a controlled manner or else …”
“Or else what?”
His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile that nestles into my core. “Or else you’re going to walk into that party having been fucked every which way for the last few days and have learned nothing about yourself other than how to come.”
Oh, my stars.
“I don’t think that’s all you’re after,” he says, sitting back.
He watches me with a lifted brow, as if he knows I can’t argue his point—and like he knows that my insides are in a state of complete and utter chaos. My heart beats in places I didn’t know could be felt. I’m so wet for him that I regret not wearing panties. He’s right, and I hate that he’s right and I can’t argue with him.