Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
“I’ll give you one minute,” I finally say decisively. “That’s all you get, though, so you’d better talk fast.”
“One minute,” Roman echoes, his dark eyes shooting murderous daggers at Brandon. “And if you touch her during that minute, I swear to God, mother—” He looks at Maverick and stops himself. “I won’t be a gentleman anymore.”
I slide out of the booth with Maverick and guide him to his father. As I gently push Maverick toward his father, he whispers to me, “Why did Daddy call him ‘mother’?” It’s another Maverick-ism worthy of Ava’s journal. But I’m too stressed about Brandon’s unexpected appearance here to smile about it.
With Maverick secured in Roman’s strong arms, I march toward the front door of the ice cream parlor with my head high and Brandon trailing behind me. Once outside, I position myself in front of the window, so Roman can see everything that goes down, and then turn around in a huff to face Brandon, my hands on my hips. “One minute. Go.”
Brandon puffs out his cheeks. “I-I went to rehab after the wedding, and I—”
“Yeah, so you wouldn’t have to go to jail for all the money you stole from clients.” That’s what his sister, Delilah, told me in a text—that Brandon went to rehab as part of a confidential settlement agreement brokered by their father with all his firms’ clients, so Mr. Gladstone could avoid his precious son having to endure legal consequences for his bad behavior.
Brandon’s face falls. “That’s why I went, yes. Originally. But I’ve been taking it really seriously and trying to become a better person.”
I look at my watch. “Thirty seconds.”
Brandon shifts his weight. “As part of my treatment plan, I have to go to every person I’ve ever betrayed or hurt and make amends with them. You’re the first person on my list.”
“I should feel honored about that?”
“Just saying you’re at the top of the list, that’s all.”
I snort. “With a list as long as yours, I’m sure the people at the bottom will die of old age before you get to them.” I look at my watch. “Time’s up.” I glare into his eyes. “Fuck you, Brandon. Never contact me again, you lying sack of shit.” I turn to go, but Brandon grabs my arm to keep me in place.
“Hang on, Iris. Please. Hear me out.”
I jerk away from Brandon’s grasp. Not because he’s physically hurting me. His grip is pretty gentle, actually. But Brandon’s flesh against mine, no matter how soft his touch, feels like a violation.
Brandon opens his mouth to say more, but before he gets a word out, Roman appears out of nowhere, moving like a panther. In a blur, he picks up Brandon like he’s a toddler and hurls him several feet down the sidewalk, effectively turning Brandon into Roman’s human bowling ball.
As Brandon clatters onto the hard sidewalk, Roman booms, “Stay the fuck away from my girlfriend!”
Girlfriend? Perhaps now isn’t the time to feel giddy about Roman’s word choice, but I can’t help myself. Does he truly think of me that way, or is he using the word to screw with Brandon, the same way I talked about getting “railed” and “scrambled” at the end of my ranting tirade in the church a lifetime ago?
Brandon raises his palms, striking a defensive posture. He doesn’t seem physically hurt by his tumbling voyage onto the sidewalk. Shocked, yes. Stunned and embarrassed, definitely. But otherwise, he seems perfectly fine. “Calm down, Roman. I didn’t come to fight.”
Roman turns to me, his eyes aflame. “Are you okay, baby?” When I nod, he takes my hand and pulls me into him. “Do you have anything you want to say to this piece of shit before he skitters away like the cockroach he is?”
“One thing.” I release Roman’s hand and stride over to Brandon on the ground. “I’m not frigid, you little bitch. Not with the right man.” I wish I could scream this petty put-down from the roof of the ice cream parlor, but I’m too battle-scarred from that stupid viral video to do anything but whisper-shout it while covering my mouth with my palm. As much as I want to release a primal, cathartic scream into the universe, it’s far more important that nobody watching this spectacle—or worse, recording it—has any chance of capturing my voice or reading my lips.
“On the contrary,” I add in another whisper-shout. “As it turns out, I’m a certified nymphomaniac with the right man—that man there—because he actually knows what he’s doing in bed, unlike you!”
Roman snorts and hoots with glee behind me. “Atta girl.”
“Never, ever contact me again,” I add, practically spitting the words out. “Or I’ll get a restraining order on your ass.” I return to Roman and defiantly grab his hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s leave the trash on the sidewalk for the trashmen to pick up.”