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)
And a part of me thinks, for one crazy, wild moment, that when his eyes meet mine, he’s thinking of that too.
“Thank you,” he says politely to my father. “That’s excellent whiskey.”
“I’ll have a case sent to you,” my father says with a nod. I’ll hand it to my dad—he knows how to play the part well.
“I’d appreciate that,” Cavin says with a loud, firm slap of hands and a handshake. And then we’re headed to the door, and he’s opening it for me. I have a little shawl draped over my elbow because Bridget told me to, and it all feels surreal. Why am I looking forward to going on a date with a man I hate?
His car is absolutely gorgeous. It smells like leather and luxury, it’s spacious, and it’s immaculately clean.
“This car is gorgeous,” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he says. “It’s a loaner.”
“Oh, right. What happened the other night?”
“We don’t know yet.”
There’s a pause, and I wonder if he thinks it’s awkward. What exactly qualifies as an awkward pause? Three seconds? Five? Is there a scientific measurement? How do people know these things?
“Well, it’s a very nice car for my first date.” I instantly press my lips together. Why did I just confess to that?
He shrugs. “Aye. What do you mean?”
“I mean, well, you know, it’s my first date. I might as well go in style.”
“Your first date with me,” he asks quietly, “or your first date, period?”
Oh no. Was I not supposed to tell him that? I bite my lip and look out the window. It’s probably unusual for someone who’s twenty-six years old to be on her first date, but I’ve never wanted to date before.
“Um, no, just… just first date in general.”
“Alright. No pressure or anything,” he says with a smile that’s almost boyish. “Though I’m honored to be your first.”
He can’t look at me that way. When he looks at me that way, I forget that I’m supposed to hate him.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Bridget
How are you doing?
I text her back. We text for a few minutes, and Cavin gives me a side glance. I realize this is probably rude and put the phone down in my lap.
“Erin, tell me a little bit about yourself,” he says quietly.
And I actually laugh out loud.
“What?” he says, a little sheepish.
“Nothing. I…” Be honest, she said. Be brutally honest. “I was a little nervous about tonight, and I may have practiced a little bit with my sister. This sounds so awkward right now.” Oh god, maybe I wasn’t supposed to be this honest. I wring my hands and look out the window again.
“And the question that she asked me was, ‘Tell me a little bit about yourself.’ And I didn’t expect that that would actually be the question you’d ask.”
“No way,” he says with a chuckle. “Didn’t need to be that predictable, did I?”
Why is he so… disarming when he’s smiling?
“Right,” I say with a smile. “Alright. So, honestly—”
Be honest, you’re marrying this man.
“I don’t live a very exciting life.” I sigh, shaking my head. “I like to be home. And when I’m home, I like to wear comfortable, familiar clothing. I don’t like…” I sigh and blow out a breath. “Getting dressed up and going to places. I don’t like crowds or noise or anything like that. When I’m home, I like to do puzzles. Intricate ones with lots of pieces. My mind works very quickly when it comes to patterns, and I piece things together. It needs to be a challenge for me to find it enjoyable.”
A challenge. Just like him.
“And I knit for pretty much the same reason,” I tell him quietly. “I like to listen to audiobooks while I knit. And thanks to my job, I may be a tad obsessed with finances and investing and whatnot. So there you go. I’m sorry, it’s…not exciting.”
“There’s no need to apologize for—”
The phone rings. The screen reads “Daire.”
Cavin curses and punches the screen.
“Hey. There’s an incident at St. Albert’s. Seamus needs you to go.”
Oh no.
No. Please no.
“Fuck,” Cavin mutters, already making a U-turn. “I’m sorry, I have to—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp, panicked. “Don’t take me there.”
He glances at me, his brow furrowed. “What?”
“St. Albert’s. I can’t—” My chest tightens. I can’t breathe properly. “Just take me home. Please.”
I grip the door handle like I might jump out of the moving car. He pulls over to the side of the road and turns to face me fully.
“What’s wrong?”
Everything. Everything is wrong.
That place. Those hallways. The lockers where they’d corner me. The classrooms where he’d laugh. The bathroom where they—
“Erin.” His voice is gentle, confused. “Talk to me.”
“That’s where…” I can’t finish. My throat closes up.
Understanding dawns across his face, followed immediately by something that looks like horror. “Christ,” he breathes out. “That’s where we… where I…”