Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
How is this real?
She flips a light on in the hallway, something I did not do earlier, and it illuminates the space. The walls on the left are dotted with gold frames of all sizes. Inside them are pictures of people whom I don’t know, but who look happy.
“Those are my friends, mostly,” she says. “There are some of Lucia.” Her gaze sweeps across the images until it lands on one in the top left corner. “That’s my mom and dad.”
I step closer to get a good look at the couple who raised my girl. They’re attractive and very well put together. Her mother’s smile is bright but practiced, and her father reminds me of the kind of guy who everyone loves but never quite gets to know.
“How do you feel when you look at that picture?” I ask, wrapping my arm around her waist.
She studies it for a while. “Honestly? Sad.”
I pull her closer to me.
“I’m sad they’re gone,” she says. “I’m sad we didn’t have more chances to really understand each other. I’m sorry for the life they could’ve lived but chose not to, you know? I wonder a lot if they regretted anything in their last moments. If they could’ve been saved, would they have changed anything?” She looks up at me with doe eyes. “I’ll never know.”
“You’re right,” I say carefully, trying to find words that don’t try to fix her pain, nor steal her grief. “You won’t know. But that doesn’t mean the questions aren’t worth asking.”
She nuzzles into my side.
“Want to know what I know?” I ask softly, remembering the things she’s told me about her parents.
She nods against my chest.
“I know that you’re a brilliant, strong, motivated, creative, thoughtful, beautiful woman,” I say, before kissing the top of her head. “A little stubborn and a little chaotic, but that’s what makes you special.”
She laughs quietly, squeezing me tighter.
“They created their lives,” I say, stroking her back. “And you’re creating yours. Look at your home. Look at your job—second-highest-rated show at Canoodle behind a very popular sports show.” I chuckle as she pretends to squirm away. “You have friends who will call your phone sixteen times.”
And you have me.
This was inevitable. There was no way I wasn’t going to fall for Gianna Bardot. I knew it when I dared her to date me, pretending like six weeks would get her out of my system. It was a farce, a joke—and now I’m in far too deep to save myself.
She’s going to crush me.
And I’m going to let her, so at least I’ll know what it was like to have her in my arms.
Gianna pulls away, taking my hand and locking our fingers together. I try not to read too much into it. I try not to acknowledge the lump in my throat as she leads me through the house. But whether it was purposeful or instinctual, she still did it. She opened up to me and allowed me to comfort her.
She trusted me.
“What are you painting over there?” I ask as we go through the living room.
“I’m not sure. I was going to do this mixed-media thing, but it didn’t work out. Now it just sits there and mocks me.”
I chuckle. “Is painting your favorite thing to do? Or do prefer … collecting buttons?”
“Those aren’t just any buttons. They were Mom’s and Grandma’s. And I was trying to find a way to do something with them, so they didn’t get lost.” She giggles as we enter the kitchen. “Mom would hate the mess, but I have to think that Grandma would’ve appreciated them getting kicked over while being carried to my room by a tall, dark, and handsome kind—just her type.”
“There are the tetanus cans.” I snort. “These are interesting. They do look like butterflies.”
“Did you doubt my artistic abilities?”
“No.” I watch her rummage in the cabinets out of the corner of my eye. “It was more your sanity that I was concerned about.”
She groans. “I have no food except for Matilda. And we can’t eat Matilda in her current form.”
What is this woman talking about?
“Want to order something?” she asks.
I have so many questions, but I don’t know where to start. So I avoid them all and deal with the snack issue. “Do you have crackers?”
“Yeah.”
“Butter?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I motion for her to give them to me. “Have you ever eaten butter and crackers?”
“I have not. I’m not sure why you would.” She sets a box and a butter bell on the table. Then she grabs a knife. “Figured you’d need this.”
“When I was growing up, we’d have this sometimes with our dinner,” I say, opening a package of crackers. Memories flood my mind of big bowls of chili and a stack of buttered saltines beside it. “These crackers are a little fancy, but they’ll work. You need the thin square ones for this to be exactly right.”