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)
I sputter and nearly choke on my sip of water. When I’ve regained control, I ask in a rough voice, “Excuse me?”
“That’s how I had an idea what to do in the bedroom,” she says, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. But she also looks pleased with herself for throwing me off-kilter. “Porn. The good stuff, though, not the angry, mean-to-women stuff.” She waves the menu back and forth. “But they don’t have that for French food.”
“I’m pretty sure they do. It was called The French Chef and ran for ten years out of a public television studio in Boston in the sixties and early seventies.”
“Before my time, old man,” she teases.
My lips twist. “Before mine, too, young wench.”
She laughs and the ache in my chest squeezes a little tighter. “Touché.”
“Look at you, using French words like a natural,” I say, wishing I could reach across the table, curl my fingers around the back of her neck, and pull her in for a kiss. Instead, I say, “Why don’t you let me order for you? We can get a few things to share. Anything you don’t like I can take care of. I didn’t eat breakfast before the funeral and the luncheon was repulsive.”
Her smile fades. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask how it was.”
“It’s all right. It was sad, but not in the way it should have been.”
Her brow furrows as she mulls that over. “Yeah, I can see that. Better to mourn the loss of a great person than mourn the loss of who that person could have been if they’d had more time.”
My jaw tightens. “Exactly. Though I don’t think Rodger would have become anything better than he was. Most people don’t improve with age.”
“But some do,” she says, her robin’s egg blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my empty stomach even more unsettled. “I already like you more than I did the first time we met. You should let your smiley side out more often. It’s nice.”
She’s astute, perceptive, and deserves a taste of everything on this damned menu…even if I have no intention of embracing my “smiley” side.
She laughs, adding, “You should see your face. You look like you swallowed a shot of apple cider vinegar.”
“Let me order for you?” I ask as I spot our waiter on his way through the mostly empty tables on the outdoor patio.
She nods, a secret smile on her lips. “Sure. But I can’t do wine at lunch. If you were thinking about that. I don’t drink before I get behind the wheel. Not even a little bit.”
“Understandable,” I say, the reminder of her father’s car accident taking some of the shine off the moment.
I hurt this woman. Not directly, not on purpose or with malice of forethought, and the violence I doled out that night was absolutely provoked—Leon came at me first.
But still…I hurt her. And she was only a child at the time, a kid left alone in the world after her parents both abandoned her in their own shitty ways.
When she was telling her story, I could practically see her at eight, wandering around her childhood home, calling for a mother and father who would never be there for her again. It reminded me of my own childhood, of realizing that any thought, feeling, or opinion not approved of by my parents would lead to rejection.
Standing up for my mother when my father beat her led to the same.
My father used my “back talk” as an excuse to beat me, as well, then treat me like a ghost in my own home.
He didn’t leave me alone—he sent me to my room and wouldn’t allow anyone in the family to speak to me for days, no matter how I begged for forgiveness—but the end result was the same. I learned at a young age not to take safety for granted, and that I was the only person I could count on.
I want to tell Sully that I understand her better than she might think, but how can I? When I was part of the reason that she learned such hard, ugly lessons so young?
The only thing I hate more than a bully is a hypocrite. I refuse to be one, so once I’ve placed our order, I turn the conversation to other subjects.
“Tell me why you haven’t tried French food,” I say. “When you’re so close to French Canada?”
She blinks as she sits back in her chair, relaxing now that all our decisions are made. “I don’t know. I haven’t been anywhere, really. I work too much, I guess. And Gramps isn’t one for travelling. Everything he loves in the world is right there in Sea Breeze. Some girlfriends and I have been saving up for a trip to Iceland, though. I’m pretty excited about that. I’m dying to shoot the northern lights.”