Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Then, when you need to, you go to a larger supermarket that might be a subway ride away in order to pick up the stuff that your local store doesn’t have. In my case, my local markets don’t have a lot of the spices I like, and the laundry soap choices all leave my skin drier than the Mojave desert.
So I take the subway out here, three stops, to the biggest shopping center near the Financial District, where I go up and down the aisles, plucking the things I can’t get from my local market while keeping in mind that I’ll have to carry them home.
It’s a lot nicer doing this now than it was just a few months ago. I’ve got money in my bank account now, and as I pass a display of aloe vera and fruit juice drinks imported from Korea, I pause and grab two. That way, Maggie can try them too. Unneeded luxuries wouldn't have been possible not too long ago.
And then Dylan Sharpe came into my life. Just the thought of him forces me to smile.
After fitting my shopping into the big backpack I keep for these trips, I stop at Goldman’s Cafe for a bit of personal indulgence. It’s my reward to myself for battling the gauntlet that is the supermarket, and I’ve earned it.
I’ve just sat down with my slice and mug of cocoa when, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone stop beside my table and hear a throat clear. I glance up to find Evan looking down at me. He’s dressed casually today, or at least what passes for casual for Evan Faulkner.
My hands go numb and my heart stops. What the ever loving fuck?
I don’t say anything. Not a muscle on my face twitches as I stare at him blankly. His eyes flash as if he were expecting more from me, though I can’t imagine what. Does he think I want to see him? Did he think I’d cause a scene this time?
“Can I have a seat?” he asks once the silence stretches uncomfortably. “I need your help.”
“My help?” I echo, unsure whether I want to laugh or to throw my cocoa in his face. In the end, he doesn’t wait for me to answer, but rather, sits on his own accord. Irritated, I arch a brow that he pretends not to notice. “If you need help, go to Elise. And how the fuck did you know I’d be here?”
“Elise can’t. Not with this. But you can,” he says flatly. “As for how I knew you’d be here… Jeremy Willoughby spotted you shopping and texted me. I know this is always your next stop. Still buying that hypoallergenic laundry detergent, huh?”
He chuckles like he’s fondly remembering the time I freaked out because he used more than half a bottle of my preferred detergent to wash a single pair of underwear and one T-shirt. He hadn’t understood how to do laundry in the first place but was ‘trying’ for me because I told him it was shocking that he didn’t even know basic, functional life skills. Of course, I also never mentioned his lack of skills again either, so it all came out in Evan’s favor, the way it always does.
“Of course. And why would Jeremy message you?”
Evan sits back, relaxing like we’re two old friends catching up. “Because he knows that I want to talk to you.” He flashes a too-perfect smile, his eyes searching my face for something. “I haven’t come by your apartment because that crazy redhead you live with would probably try to castrate me if I did.”
“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” I point at my cheesecake. “You’ve got until I finish this to say what you need to say and get the fuck out, or else I start screaming. Go.”
I pick up my fork, and Evan leans forward. “Come on, Raven. I get being pissed at me, even though…” He snaps before catching himself. I can virtually see him putting his charming façade back in place, using smoke and mirrors to hide the ugliness inside. More evenly, he says, “Look, the only reason Sharpe’s with you is because he’s trying to get back at me.”
He watches me closely, like he’s waiting for my heart to break at this totally earth-shattering news.
“You mean for fucking his fiancée?” I ask as I slide my fork through the cheesecake. “Yeah, he told me about Olivia. Apparently, you were fucking her behind his back. We’ve sort of bonded over that shared trauma.”
“Bonded?”
“Yes. Bonded,” I repeat, not giving him any more.
Scooping up my first bite of cheesecake, I tuck it in my mouth, luxuriating in the silky-smooth, sweet texture. “If that’s it, you can go.”
God, it feels good to be the one to dismiss him for a change. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.