Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“So before he arrives, maybe mentally rehearse a couple of conversations you’ll have with him in your head before you have them in person. You know how that helps you. Okay? Can you do that?”
“Rehearse conversations?” I grimace. “What do you mean?”
“Oh my god, you’re so cute,” she says, coughing again. “I wish I were there. Like this—let’s practice.”
I wait again until the coughing subsides.
Fuck aplastic anemia. Why did she get the faulty bone marrow? She’s the pretty one, the one who would’ve done really well playing this part in our world.
I should be the one in that hospital bed.
Bridget sinks back against a bed of pillows. A nurse comes in and adjusts her IV. Then another one comes in and checks her medication.
We go on as if this is normal because this has become our new normal.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself, Erin,” she says in a deep, masculine voice, and I can’t help but giggle.
“Don’t ask me that,” I tell her, shaking my head.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t tell him that I’m into knitting and puzzles, Bridget. He’ll think he’s marrying an old lady.”
“Who do you think he wants to marry?” she says. “He wants to marry you. You’re not an old lady. You don’t have shriveled up titties and ovaries.”
I roll my eyes but snort.
“Listen, Erin.” She leans forward into the camera, and I wish that she didn’t, because when she does, the harsh fluorescent lighting makes her eyes look bright and highlights the dark circles underneath. It scares me.
“You need to be honest. Honesty is still the best policy. You have to understand,” she says vehemently. “In our world, everything is cloaked in lies, right? It’s all about who you know, how you play the game, who the power players are, who’s rising, who’s falling. Who’s next.” She swallows hard. “You don’t play by those rules. Honestly, babe,” she says with a soft smile, “it’s one of the things I love best about you. You are who you are, no matter what anybody else thinks.” She gives me a half smile and lowers her voice again. “So tell me, Erin. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Hmm. “I…don’t like to drink? I don’t like loud music. I don’t like…”
Me pushed up against the wall, his hand on my throat, his voice right up against my ear, and the way my heart fluttered in excitement. I liked that. But I quickly move on, pushing the thought away.
I swallow hard. “What about you?”
Bridget grins. “I like guns, fast cars, and fighting,” she says in this comically gruff, masculine voice. “And the plans I have for the beautiful woman I’m marrying.”
“Oh my god, Bridget,” I say with a giggle.
“Erin?” My father’s voice calls from downstairs, and there’s a soft knock at the door.
“Yes?”
I open it to find our housekeeper on the other side. “Your ride’s here, ma’am,” she says, her eyes wide. “And what a ride it is,” she adds with a little smile as she quickly scurries away.
“Oh god. Oh god, Bridget. I have to go. He’s… he’s here.”
“Relax,” she says with a big smile. “Remember, this is the man you’re marrying, okay?”
“I know,” I say with a grimace.
“It’s not like it’s a blind date,” she says. “Just go. Have fun. Eat good food.”
“How do I look?”
Bridget clasps her hands over her heart, sighs, and leans back against the pillows. “You look absolutely, stunningly, amazingly beautiful. And if you weren’t my sister, and he wasn’t marrying you, I would ask to marry you myself.”
That makes me smile. “You’re crazy.”
“But you love me,” she says.
“I do. So much.”
I can’t cry, not now, because even though this mascara is supposedly waterproof, I don’t want to risk fate.
“Bye.” I kiss the tips of my fingers and waggle them at her. “I love you so much too.”
There was a time when my sister and I didn’t tell each other that we loved one another, but now we realize there’s no way to know when the last goodbye will be.
I square my shoulders and walk downstairs.
I don’t know what to expect when I go downstairs, but I definitely don’t expect to see Cavin McCarthy sitting in one of the camel-colored chairs in my living room, having a drink with my father.
Oh my god. Why can’t he be outside, waiting in the car, so I can just run out to him? I don’t want to prolong this torture.
Cavin rises when I enter the room. And again, I think: gentleman. His mama raised him well.
“Erin,” Cavin says with a bow, and his eyes linger on me a second too long. He takes it all in—my dress, my makeup. “You look…” He clears his throat. “You look gorgeous.”
And it may be the first honest thing he’s ever said to me.
Will I ever be able to look at my future husband again and not remember the Dom in his sex club, the man who ruled that dark world, the lion in his lair? Because even now, with that look in his eyes—appreciative, a little stunned—I can feel his hand around my neck again.