Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“And last,” Sutton adds, her voice going softer. “You have to be prepared for her to send you packing. Because if I were Juliette, I would dump you so freaking fast—”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I get it.”
I do not need her to belabor the point.
She shrugs unapologetically. “I’m serious. I would light you on fire.”
“I feel so supported right now.”
“You asked for honesty.”
“I literally did not.”
Sutton laughs, delighted with herself. “You know that saying—if you love someone, let them go. If they come back to you, then you were lucky, and you better spend the rest of your life not being an asshole.”
Right.
I huff out a breath. “Now you’re making shit up.”
She grins. “The point stands.”
Silence settles between us again, but it’s not heavy anymore. Not combative.
“You going to call her?” Sutton asks.
I glance at my watch.
She’s at work, and I have to be at the gym. Shitty timing for a life-altering confession.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I shouldn’t do this over the phone.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want to blindside her, either.”
“I think it’s a little too late for that,” she says gently. “It’s unavoidable. She thinks you hung the moon.”
Ouch.
She studies me. “You’re not a monster, Aaron.”
My eyes go to the ceiling. “That seems debatable.”
“You were hurt. You handled it badly. That doesn’t make you irredeemable,” Sutton tells me. “You’re like one of those rakes in a historical romance. You’re like… Simon from Bridgerton.”
Pfft. Hardly.
“Simon was afraid he was going to wind up like his father and swore off children—and don’t ask me how I know this,” I grunt.
And I would know because I’ve binged all seasons.
“Ah ha! Exactly.” Sutton points at me like I’ve proven her argument. “Fear makes men do stupid, stupid shit. Like, super stupid. It doesn’t make them villains.”
“I haven’t sworn off children,” I argue.
“You’re missing the point.”
Right.
Well. “I should go—I’m meeting my trainer in an hour.”
Sutton tilts her head at me. “Thanks for telling me all this. I don’t love it, but… I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me.”
I nod. “You’re the only person I could tell.”
“That’s mildly concerning,” she says lightly. “But we can discuss the reason you have so few friends another time…”
“You’re so annoying.”
She makes an exaggerated kissy face at the camera. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She ends the call.
I shove away from the counter and pace the kitchen, bare feet on the hardwood. My place smells like the chicken my chef prepared when he was meal prepping, the broccoli and rice lingering in the air.
I check my watch.
My trainer can wait. He’ll survive if I’m a few minutes late.
What I can’t seem to survive is the image that keeps replaying itself in my head: Juliette’s face when I shit on her feelings for me.
Am I being a coward?
Is that what all this is about? Fear?
Fear of what, exactly?
Shit.
I lean forward on the counter, staring out the windows down into the city, wondering when the hell the thought of losing Juliette seeped into my being. When did I start caring this much? What will I do if she discovers the truth first, and tells me to piss off?
That doesn’t make you unredeemable, my sister said.
I exhale slowly.
“Figure it out, Bishop,” I say to my empty kitchen.
Because one thing is painfully clear.
I might not know the solution yet—
But walking away from Juliette isn’t one of the options.
I won’t do it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JULIETTE
Declan sort of apologizing at lunch was almost a win.
It happens so infrequently that I briefly contemplate calling our mother to brag about him—that’s how low the bar is in our family.
Men and their pride.
Still, it gives me hope that he came to the office early, before practice, to see me and attempt to work through our differences. An A for effort.
My email pings, snapping me back into reality.
A notification appears in the top right hand of my screen with the subject line:
HR Follow Up: Workplace Disclosure Policy
Right.
That.
I click it open and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Per company guidelines, any romantic relationship between employees must be disclosed to human resources to avoid conflicts of interest…
I stop reading after that, heart racing.
We’re to report any romantic relationship?
Including questionable ones, undefined arrangements?
It’s like the universe is sending us a message, except—I’m the one on the receiving end.
Are we serious enough to report?
Are we casual enough to go on ignoring it?
Are we anything?
The idea of sitting in the glass fishbowl of an office explaining my sex life to a woman named Scarlett, who burns lavender candles and has industrial hand sanitizer on her desk. gives me anxiety.
I tried bringing up our relationship status last night, but maybe I was a bit passive about it. We reached no conclusion because he had reached for me, instead. What if I march into HR with a disclosure form and he’s over there thinking we’re having fun?
I would actually die from humiliation.
I glance at my phone.