Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I decided to make a game of it. Each time one of us ignored the request to call her Glenda, I took a drink of champagne. I may have spurred that on by referring to her as Miss Runson at least eight times in the past hour.
“Sinclair,” Glenda says my name with the same lilt she did when I was seventeen. “Tell us what you’ve been up to since graduation.”
Seriously?
She’s already quizzed everyone at the table, and in the middle of Molly’s long-winded recounting of the past seven years of her life, she let it slip that I’m a ghostwriter. I thought that would be enough to appease Miss Runson’s curiosity.
Apparently, I was mistaken.
“Sinclair is a writer,” Molly injects herself back into the conversation. “A ghostwriter. She’s also one hundred percent single.”
One hundred percent?
I should question her on that because a person is single or not in my world. My attachment to a man doesn’t fit into percentages.
I let it slide because Molly is an actuary, and numbers are her life.
“I’m one hundred percent single too.” Miss Runson waves her left hand in the air. “I never got married. I devoted my life to my students, and before I knew it…poof…my ticket to ride on the marriage train had expired.”
“No.” I shake my head so hard that the motion sends my long brown hair flying over my shoulder. “That ticket never expires. I had a client who got married the day before her ninetieth birthday. It was her first marriage.”
“A client as in one of your ghostwriting subjects?” Miss Runson’s green eyes widen. “I’m not even sixty yet.”
“You still have a very good chance of finding Mr. Right.” Molly pats our former teacher’s hand. “To be precise, you have a seventy-two percent chance of getting married before your ninetieth birthday.”
I shoot Molly a look because I’m pretty sure she pulled that number out of thin air. The mischievous glint in her eye and the smirk she’s sporting tell me she did.
Glenda sits up straighter in her chair. “This calls for more champagne.”
“For everyone but Sinclair.” Molly’s palm hovers over the rim of my glass. “She’s cut off. Seeing Jameson sent her on a bender.”
If I could crawl under the table, I’d be headed in that direction now, but the skirt on this dress is too tight for that.
“I always thought you’d marry him.” Miss Runson gazes to where Jameson is sitting at a table across the room. “You’re a perfect pair.”
I shake my head. “Not even close.”
“They are, aren’t they?” Molly again adds her two cents to the conversation. “There is still time and opportunity since Jameson is in the house.”
“That ship has sailed,” I inform everyone within earshot. “I wouldn’t marry Jameson Sheppard if he were the last man on earth.”
CHAPTER THREE
Sinclair
I barely touched my dinner. It smelled divine and judging by the way everyone sitting at my table ate every last bite, it must have tasted incredible.
My stomach wouldn’t have any of it.
I tried a small piece of chicken, but that didn’t sit well.
I couldn’t tell if it had anything to do with all the champagne I consumed or if Jameson was to blame.
I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye midway through the appetizer course. He had a forkful of perfectly sautéed scallop primed at his lips.
When we locked eyes, he didn’t do anything but stare me down before the food disappeared into his mouth.
Then his attention was diverted to the people he’s seated with. I can’t see all of them, but I know that his best friend from high school, Kalon Beaumont, is sitting next to him.
Kalon is another person who was on my I-doubt-I’ll-ever-see-him-again list.
I’m scrunching that list into a ball and tossing it into the trash before the night ends.
“The bride and groom are going to cut the cake soon,” Molly announces. “I heard that each layer is a different flavor. There are seven layers, so…yum.”
More like yuck.
I love cake, but not when my stomach is filled with a sea of champagne and little else.
“I should call it a night, “ I whisper to Molly. “I think I need to go home.”
“Yeah, no.” She shakes her head. “You’re not going anywhere until midnight.”
“What?” My brow scrunches in confusion as I glance at the silver watch on my wrist. “That’s not for another three hours.”
She grabs hold of my hand to bend my wrist to get a clear view of my watch. “Three hours and seven minutes, Sinclair. Dwight and Donna are only getting married once, and we can’t miss a single moment of it.”
“We saw the ceremony,” I remind her. “We sat through dinner and Dwight’s speech…”
“And Donna’s too,” she adds. “We toasted to the happy couple. Some of us toasted a few too many times.”
I playfully raise a hand since I’m the guilty party. “You can never toast true love too many times.”