Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
It would be highly unlikely. I’m good at sneaking around and I lied to my best friend for almost a decade about how I lost my virginity. And lies to protect the people I love will come even easier than lies to protect my pride.
“You’re talking yourself into betrayal awfully quickly,” I murmur, but the wave of guilt I’m expecting doesn’t come.
There’s no room for guilt inside me right now.
There’s only longing and the sobering knowledge that Weaver can’t get back from changing his clothes soon enough. No matter how off-balance he makes me feel sometimes, I already…miss him.
“You’re so fucked,” I murmur, earning a resounding, Sure are, from the inner voice.
Well, at least we agree on something.
chapter 10
WEAVER
It’s such a fucking cliché—the girl who has no idea she’s beautiful.
I can name three cheesy pop songs on the topic off the top of my head…but that doesn’t stop me from being every bit as drawn in by the phenomenon as the teenaged members of One Direction.
As I watch Sully scan the menu in the autumn sunshine, her cheeks pink from the portable heater our waiter pulled closer to our table, and her hair a golden halo around her face, I’m moved by her beauty. Watching her run a finger over her lip as she thinks, the way she tilts her head with an unconscious sensuality…it’s like standing in front of one of my favorite paintings at The Museum of Modern Art.
I go to MOMA at least once a month, usually right when they open on a Saturday, to take advantage of private member hours in the galleries. I didn’t discover art until I was an adult—it wasn’t something my parents had time for or encouraged an appreciation for in their children—but once I discovered the New York City museums, I was hooked.
Hooked on the sheer volume of genius on display, on the beauty and passion and creativity, but most of all, hooked on the way the art made me feel.
I wasn’t encouraged to feel as a child, either. I certainly wasn’t encouraged to give in to surges of emotion or dive deep into the mysteries of the human heart. The Tripps are old school New England, a stoic, solid, cynical lot who value the material over all else. I was taught that the material is all a man can count on.
In many ways, I still agree with that tenant of my childhood—it’s a cruel world and acquiring wealth is one of the few paths to safety—but I don’t want to imagine my life without what I found at the museums. Without awe, reverence, and that ache that hits in the center of my chest when I see clear evidence that an artist working hundreds of years before I was born felt the weight of the world the same way I do…
It’s a kind of connection I never imagined I could experience, let alone crave.
I also never imagined a woman like Gertrude Sullivan would send that same ache winding around my ribs. I’m still not sure why she has this effect on me, why she softens my sharp edges and brings a genuine smile to my face in a way few people can, but I know it’s about more than her beauty.
Or about more than the beauty that’s skin deep, perhaps…
“You’re staring at me again,” she murmurs, her eyes still on her menu. “Am I taking too long to decide if I’m monstrous enough to eat a rabbit?”
“Not at all,” I say, smiling again. It’s a problem, how much this girl makes me smile. “I’m sure the rabbit is delicious. The restaurant has impeccable reviews.”
She glances toward the inside of the bistro, filled with older couples on vacation and a few businessmen scrolling through their phones. “I bet.” She turns back to me, leaning closer as she whispers, “This place is fancy as fuck.”
Again, with the smiling. “So, order the rabbit. If you’ve never had it, a fancy as fuck establishment is the way to go for your first time.”
She makes a soft considering sound, glancing up at me through her long, sandy blond lashes as she murmurs, “I’ve heard that about first times. That fancy as fuck is best.”
I hold her gaze, imagining all the things I’d like to do to her beautiful body if we have a second time. “Thank you. I’m flattered…I think.”
“You should be,” she says, her tongue sweeping across her bottom lip, making the swelling behind my fly more pronounced. “But here’s the problem, Mr. Fancy, I don’t actually want to eat a rabbit. It’s just the only thing on the menu that isn’t stuffed with spinach or comes with some kind of cheese sauce I can’t pronounce.”
“The mussels sound good. Just a white wine sauce, no cheese in sight.”
“But I’ve eaten muscles my entire life,” she says. “I want to try something authentically French, expand my horizons and all that, but…” She glances back to her menu before casting a pleading look my way. “But there’s no porn for eating French food.”