Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Right.” I huffed out a laugh that expressed more pain than humor. The things he was saying, the sincerity in his eyes, was exactly what I’d wanted from him a week ago. Now, what I wanted from him was so much more… and absolutely never gonna happen. “You want me to stand up for myself and what I deserve, but you definitely don’t want anyone to know you’re in my bunk right now. You want to protect me from Layla, but you don’t want to hear what I learned from Terrance, which means you won’t help me protect myself and anyone else at PennCo. And you’re side-eyeing me for giving in to my family when you’ve spent so long taking ownership of Brantleigh’s life he might never learn to take responsibility for his own happiness or his own fuckups.”
Too much. I’d said too much. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to suck them back. Instead, I firmed my jaw and refused to utter another word.
Thatcher pulled away, literally and figuratively. Storm clouds crashed across his expression. “I can see we’ve gotten into the inadvisable act of exchanging unsolicited advice. My bad. I’ll find my own bunk and leave you to your sleep.”
As usual, I couldn’t let him have the last word, even though I betrayed myself with my final jab. “Might as well sleep in the bedroom. Layla’s probably in there fantasizing about you anyway. McGee totally called that whole situation… not that you listened to him either.”
The only indication Thatcher heard me was the slight widening of his nostrils. “Good night, Reagan.”
As he escaped through the bunk curtain, I felt that strange kind of emptiness that comes from pulling out of a lover. It was enough to make me low-key nauseated and edgy at the same time.
I opened my mouth to call him back, but the words didn’t come. Maybe it was better this way. It would be easier to keep our distance from each other if we couldn’t stand the sight of each other.
As I counted out the next two hours with the steady thrum thrum thrum of the bus tires, I did an awful lot of fantasizing about someone I couldn’t stand the sight of.
When we finally reached Honeybridge late the following day, I shot off the bus like I’d been fired from a cannon. Layla had treated me like a brainless bridge troll the entire day, and Thatcher acted like he didn’t have a single concern outside of work. It was a stark reminder of the truth. Thatcher Pennington was married to his job and always would be.
“Reagan, darling!” My mother’s voice cut through the thin winter air as she strode down the shallow front steps to greet us. Her crisp navy wool trousers and cream turtleneck sweater were a calm contrast to the bright silver metallic snow boots JT and Flynn had given her for Christmas. Thankfully, they’d refrained from telling her they’d only selected those particular boots because they were called “Cougars.” I was saving that tidbit for just the perfect moment.
“What took you so long?” she demanded, throwing air-kisses in my general direction before reaching out to grasp Thatcher’s hands. “Oh, and Thatch-errr.” She beamed a bright-white smile. “It’s always so lovely to see you. Come in, come in. It’s forecast to be utterly frigid the entire week of the festival. I’m so put out.” Her forehead might have creased with a scowl, if such a thing were possible.
One would think frigid conditions would be optimal for an Ice Fest, but I knew better than to say this out loud.
We all trundled to the foyer, and I inhaled the warm, welcome scent of home. My mother’s custom-blended botanical room spray was a cross between fresh pine and the glossy pages of a home-decor magazine. The usual bowls of wooden balls and vases of monochromatic feathers had replaced the holiday decorations since my previous visit over Christmas, but there was a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, giving the main living room a cozy feel.
As much as I enjoyed the bustle of Honeybridge in the summer tourist season, I liked the winter here just as well. And although I’d been dreading this interruption to our trip, I was surprised to find there were things I’d missed about this place.
My father stood in the living room, his cell at his ear, staring out over the rooftops of the town at the glittering waters of Lake Wellbridge in the distance. He was using his Senator Voice, so I knew better than to interrupt him with a greeting.
My mother continued her welcoming speech as our housekeeper, Rosalia, took Layla’s and Thatcher’s coats. Patricia was in her element, inviting everyone to sit and enjoy a “preprandial cocktail” before the other guests—you remember Bunty and Magdalena Lamb, don’t you, Thatcher? And the Parks and the Jains?—gathered for dinner. Her overly enthusiastic discourse contrasted with the rude continuation of my father’s phone call, reminding me what I didn’t love about coming home.