Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“I can’t give you speed since they’re residential roads, but I can show you a detour if you get off at the next exit.” The pace is slower, but there’s more time to reflect on my feelings that returning to seeing my dad has evoked, and even the visit with my mom before that.
Driving down the palm tree–lined street, Jackson shifts gears, and says, “I don’t know if you remember, but my dad had a heart attack a few years back.”
I sit up, adjusting my seat belt. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t remember.”
“He had it while selling the business. The stress of negotiations finally got to him. My mom had also been begging him for years to retire. That retirement and the life he worked so hard for was almost taken away. He’s fine now. Best shape of his life, but we know we’re lucky to have him.”
“I can only hope my dad has the same outcome.”
He reaches over and gently squeezes my leg. We haven’t felt ourselves, but that gesture gives me comfort. “He’ll pull through better than ever.”
Leaning my head back, I feel like I can finally breathe again. “Promise?” I turn to him and smile.
“Promise.”
When we reach the driveway, I give Jackson the code to punch in, and the gates open. Pulling up to the house, he says, “Beverly Hills is always exactly like what you see in the movies. I don’t know why that always surprises me.”
“It’s like that on purpose. It’s all a Hollywood façade.”
Jackson thinks I don’t know much about him, but there are certain things I do know—he was raised by his parents, who are still happily married and in the seat of wealth. He’s from newish money compared to some in Manhattan. He comes from a respected and reputable last name. He knows money. He’s just not pretentious.
I give him the quick tour, which means I take him directly to my room because I do not have the energy to walk him around the estate. “My dad’s chef might be here if you’re hungry. There’s a menu in the top drawer of the nightstand.”
“A menu? Like room service?”
Why do I feel embarrassed? He knows that’s all my dad since my personal financial situation hangs by a thread. I have no room to brag. But then I remember what my dad said. I didn’t get a chance to enjoy the news of the trust fund under that circumstance, but now . . . No, I still can’t. The money feels different now. “Yeah. I’m not going to eat. I just need to sleep.” I brush my teeth to rid myself of my coffee breath and then kick off the flip-flops I found in the closet. When I slip on my pajamas again, the shorts are skintight and ride up, but I can’t think about that right now. I tug on the T-shirt that doesn’t quite reach my belly button and return to the bedroom.
From the chair closest to the closet, Jackson’s eyes take me in as soon as I leave the bathroom. If we were home, we’d soothe any troubled waters with great sex. No one can ever say we aren’t pure chemistry, but I’m craving a different connection with him.
When I bend over to grab my scrunchie from the suitcase where I dumped it early this morning, I hear a chuckle. “Spoiled?”
I pop back up, having already forgotten what’s written across the back of the shorts. “It used to be something I laughed about in high school, not even realizing how true it was. Now I cringe.” I crawl back into the bed I never made before I left.
“Cringing is the last thing on my mind when I see your ass.”
Normally, my body would react instantaneously to him, but now I’m the one keeping secrets, so where does that leave us?
He senses the games we usually play aren’t in motion and goes into the bathroom. I close my eyes, not wanting to hear my mother’s last words, but they’re stuck in my head and staking red flags. “We all end up alone, so don’t end up with nothing.”
I squeeze my lids tighter, wanting the words of warning to disappear, even if only for a little while.
The door to the bathroom opens, and I hear him pad across the Berber carpet. The bed dips, but all movement ceases after that. It’s so tempting to open my eyes and try to give comfort while seeking the same in his arms. I can’t do that, though, not right now. So I stay on my side of the mattress, not breaching the middle until he’s lying beside me doing the same.
Our breathing keeps us company until he whispers, “We’re breaking up, aren’t we?”
I open my eyes. His tone isn’t sad. It isn’t much of anything I can put my finger on, except maybe acceptance, which seems to own the look in his eyes as well. I think that hurts more. I’m not sure what happened between the gesture in the car and here in bed, but I know we both feel the difference.