Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
His fingers finally drop from my elbow, only to skim up my arm so that his hand rests on my shoulder.
I’ve often admired his hands when he grasps the coffee cups that I offer him every morning. More than once, those long, deft fingers and the thoroughly masculine, broad palms have shown up in my paintings. The secret paintings that I’ve never shown to anyone.
His hand is heavier than I imagined it might be, and his fingertips press into my shoulder ever so slightly, as though his firm but careful grip will somehow hold me together when I’m on the verge of shattering. My composure is already in tatters, my cheery mask cracked to reveal the anguish inside.
“Breathe, Abigail,” he intones. “Just breathe.”
I obey and inhale more of his intoxicating scent.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask on the exhale before I can think better of it.
His dark brows knit together. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”
I gesture at my name badge that’s pinned to my black apron. “Everyone calls me Abby.”
He flashes me a dazzling smile that knocks the precious oxygen from my lungs. “I suppose I’m still a bit more formal than the locals. Bad habit from back home.”
I don’t bother to tell him that my local family raised me to be highly formal as well.
I never talk about them. If I can avoid it, I try not to even think about them.
“You’re from England, right?” I ask instead, happy for the distraction from the churning in my gut.
He nods. “From York originally. The old York.”
“Oh,” I say, somewhat inanely. “What brought you to South Carolina?”
His smile turns a touch rueful. “You don’t have to make small talk with me, Abigail. How are you feeling?”
In this moment, I decide that I love the way he says my full name. I don’t want him to call me Abby. Despite the formality, it feels intimate; something I share only with him.
My heart gives a weak flutter, and the giddy reaction is so much sweeter than the horrific shredding sensation that’s tormented me all morning. I try again to lift my lips at the corners, and this time, my facial muscles cooperate.
I smooth my apron and touch the unicorn pin like a talisman: a reminder of the whimsical, joyful energy I choose to embody in the new life I’ve established for myself in Charleston.
“Better, thanks,” I reply truthfully.
“Good.”
God, that smile. He’s always been too painfully perfect to look directly at him, but now that I’m caught in the full force of that cocky grin, I can’t tear my gaze away.
“Are you feeling well enough to go out to dinner with me tonight?”
“What?”
His hand is still on my shoulder, grounding me far more effectively than the therapeutic technique of focusing on my five senses. Despite the fact that I no longer feel like I’m going to be sick, my brain is still too scrambled to fully process the fact that he’s asking me out.
For months, it’s felt safe to fantasize about him because he’s too gorgeous and refined to ever consider as a real possibility. He’s an untouchable prince, but I’ve crafted my secret rakish villain to wear his face when I’m alone in my bed. This invitation for a date seems impossible.
Not to mention, he’s a customer, and I shouldn’t date customers.
“You heard me,” he admonishes, but his voice lilts with arrogant amusement. “Have dinner with me.”
His grip on my shoulder tightens ever so slightly.
Gloved hands on my body, roughly groping and exploring my curves as though he has every right. A cloying scent of cheap amber aftershave makes the air sickeningly thick, so that it clogs in my constricted throat. That awful skull leers at me as he takes what he wants…
I jerk away from Dane, wrenching free from his hold. My stomach hollows out at the loss even as I gasp in a breath of humid air.
I can’t be near a man right now, especially not the man I’ve secretly fantasized about. His allure is messing with my head when I need to hold the shattered fragments of my soul together in the wake of a horrific attack.
No one knows what happened to me last night. I barely speak to my family anymore, and my friends don’t need to know my shame.
There’s no point calling the cops when the masked invader made me orgasm. Some part of me got off on it. The dark pleasure had been keen enough to cut deeper than the knife that’d threatened me.
I’m too fucked up, too broken, to be with a charming man like Dane.
“I can’t,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry.”
He calls after me, but before my name fully leaves his sensual lips, I spin on my heel and duck back into the café to finish my shift.
I act as though this is a normal day, and I manage to lose myself in rote, mundane tasks. Tonight, I’ll get drunk with Franklin so that I won’t be tempted to paint.