Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
The quiet settles around us, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just there, pulsing between us, and neither of us feels compelled to fill it up with chatter.
But the bubble of silence is popped when Breezy’s phone buzzes against the nightstand.
She reaches for it and groans the instant her eyes check the screen.
“Something wrong?”
She turns her phone for me to read it.
Serena: What was the name of Henry’s favorite cologne? I’m thinking of getting a tattoo of it.
I blink. “I’m sorry, but is that a real text? From an actual human?”
“Unfortunately.” She tosses the phone back down, disgust rolling off her. “It’s my dad’s widow who, yeah, is technically my stepmother but is only twenty-seven.”
“And she wants a cologne tattoo?” I furrow my brow. “Like of the bottle?”
“You’re asking the wrong person that question,” Breezy says through a laugh. “I won’t pretend to have any idea what’s inside that woman’s head.” Her laughter fades, and her hand drifts back to my chest. Suddenly, her face is shadowed by sadness. “My dad died two months ago. Unexpected heart attack. He was in Europe with Serena.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I don’t say anything else. Instead, I just slide my hand over hers and hold it against my chest. I give her space to say or not say anything she wants.
“Did you know I used to run my family’s art galleries? They were basically my whole life,” she says, but her voice has dropped to a near whisper. Like whatever she’s about to tell me is too difficult to use her full voice. “They’re a Bishop legacy that my grandfather Harold started. World-renowned, truthfully. When Grandpa died a long time ago, my father was supposed to run the show, but for the last two decades, I’ve been the workhorse behind them. Pretty much running them all by myself.”
She pauses, and I just keep giving her whatever space she needs while I hold her hand against my chest the entire time.
“I sacrificed everything to keep Bishop Galleries going,” she admits quietly, and I don’t miss the way her voice shakes a little around her words. “To keep them successful. To keep my family’s legacy intact. And then, my father up and died, and he left them to my littlest brother Logan, who hasn’t done jack shit for the galleries. He doesn’t have a clue about art.”
She exhales a shaky breath.
“And if that’s not bad enough, I found out that Logan knew, Tad. He knew for six months before my father died that the galleries were going to him, and he never told me. I was blindsided. Everything I built—everything I gave up—just handed over like I wasn’t good enough. Like what I built and created and sacrificed for didn’t mean anything.” She blows out a shaky breath and moves her head from side to side. “Now, even though I still have a place in New York, I’m living in Bennett’s guest room like I’m twenty again because going back to the city is…too much for me right now. Too big of a reminder of everything I sacrificed and everything I lost.”
She scrubs a hand down her face, lifts her eyes to mine, and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “So there it is. The story of why I’m hanging out in Red Bridge. Why I currently have no plan. No direction. Why I’m basically just lost…lost and pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic, Breezy,” I refute, reaching up to gently run my knuckles along her cheek. “You’re the exact opposite of pathetic, actually.”
She searches my gaze closely, like she’s trying to measure if I mean it. And I don’t hesitate to keep going.
“That’s fucking terrible, what happened to you. I’m sorry it did. I’m sorry you were betrayed by the people who should’ve protected you,” I say and brush my thumb across the firm line of her lips. “And again, you’re not pathetic. Not at all. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re doing or not doing right now, it all makes sense, Breeze. Everything you built got tragically ripped away from you. That’ll rattle anyone. It would make anyone feel untethered and completely fucking lost. And that doesn’t mean you’re weak. It just means you’re human.”
Her mouth quirks at the corners, though it doesn’t quite turn into a smile. “Sounds like you know a thing or two about being rattled.”
“I guess maybe I do.” I shrug and look away, toward the window and the way the shadows of the trees are pressed into the glass.
I don’t say or do or reveal any more. I don’t fill her head with the kind of dark, heavy shit that sits inside my soul on a daily basis. Don’t tell her that most nights I dream about smoke and ash and everything I couldn’t save.
Instead, I press a kiss into her hair, pulling her closer until her leg hooks over mine and her breath evens against my skin.