Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
She stopped talking, not sure she wanted to tell him anymore, her face blossoming with color.
“What?” His voice quiet, reassuring, and interested. His eyes were gentle.
She breathed out a shuddering sigh and shrugged. Her fingers tracing the veins in the marble-top counter.
“I’d wet myself. No other students were there to witness it, but… I was so scared they’d find out. That it would be another thing for them to mock me about.”
“How old were you?”
She’d been so absorbed in the memories that she’d mostly put behind her that the question, uttered in that dark, brooding voice, startled her. She jumped and looked at him. She was getting so used to being in his company every day that it no longer seemed surreal that she was standing here in Trystan Abbott’s presence.
“It started when I was fourteen and didn’t stop until I started my A-levels at seventeen. They were the longest three years of my life. I was fifteen at the time of that particular incident.”
“So, you were sorry to miss the wedding because you planned to spit in the champagne fountain, right?” he asked and—after the meander down shitty memory lane—his dry wit was very welcome. Iris burst into laughter and he watched her for a moment, his eyes alight with an indefinable emotion, before he joined in on the laughter.
“Not gonna lie, the thought definitely occurred to me,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But honestly? I wanted to witness the spectacle. All the gorgeous saris, the colors, the food. I fully intended to remain out of the bride’s sight, though. I wanted to avoid the inevitable snarky comments. She really is such a bitch. And going by the few times I’d encountered her over the past few years, the last decade has done nothing to improve her disposition at all.”
“Do you work for your parents full time?” he asked, while removing a couple of plates from a kitchen cabinet.
“No. I help out most weekends, and when they’re short-staffed, but I’m a freelance editor. I work mostly with indie authors, and have a decent—and growing—client base.”
He set the table, while she turned off the gas cooker to give the curry a few minutes to cool down.
“Sounds like a thriving business.”
“It is. I earn good money and enjoy the work. But…”
“You want to write your own stories,” he completed for her, and she blinked at him in surprise.
“I—no… I mean, I want to be a journalist. I have a level 3 diploma in multimedia journalism, I’ve just never had the opportunity to—”
“Iris, you seem like a determined woman. Someone who usually achieves what she sets out to do. You’re what? Twenty-six? And you’ve been faffing around editing, working for your parents, doing anything except what you say you so desperately want to do. I’d think that by now you would have at least worked or interned at any number of publications or news agencies. But you haven’t. Why not?”
“The time was never right. My dad went through a bad spell with his health a few years ago and I needed to help out more with the business.” Even to her own ears, her excuses sounded flimsy. Because, quite honestly, she’d had numerous solid opportunities to work as a junior reporter at several local newspapers, and she’d turned down internships at two national news broadcasters. She’d always used family commitments as a convenient excuse not to grab those chances, and now she could clearly see how much she’d been bullshitting herself.
“If I didn’t want to be a journalist, I wouldn’t be stuck in this godforsaken place with you, now would I?” she asked, throwing the question down like a gauntlet between them. Instead of bristling like she’d expected him to do, he canted his head as he leisurely perused her hot, agitated face.
“You make a valid point, Hughes. I clearly don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.” Infuriatingly, he sounded like he was humoring her and that rubbed Iris up the wrong way.
“You don’t,” she told him, anger making her voice quiver. “You have no idea what motivates me.”
“Oh, I think I do.”
“No, you don’t,” she denied, her voice heated and her words curt.
His eyes argued with her, but he chose not to verbalize what he was thinking.
“Wine?” he asked instead, reaching for a pair of long-stemmed glasses.
She stared at him, hating to let this go, needing to convince him of her commitment to her chosen career path. But knowing she couldn’t make a solid case when she, herself, doubted her choices.
“Iris?” He prompted and she inhaled deeply, hating how much she loved the sound of her name on his lips.
“Red please,” she said in response to his earlier question, and turned to retrieve the raita from the fridge.
They sat down to lunch at the quaint, cozy banquette in the kitchen and ate silently for a while, soft jazzy music playing in the background and alleviating the strained silence between them.