Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Finally, he pushes away. The movement sucks all the oxygen from my body, and I suck in a hasty breath as he faces me from the other side of the small room.
With the slightest nod I’ve ever seen a man make, he tells me he can’t. He won’t.
“Fine,” I say, hopping off the table. “Thank you for making yourself abundantly clear.”
“Carys …”
I ignore the way he growls my name. “I’ll be fine by Monday.”
“How?”
“By distracting myself with someone else.” I grab the door handle and look at him over my shoulder. He’s watching me with a mixture of confusion and anger. “But don’t worry. It won’t be with John. He’s not my type.”
I give him a cheeky grin, impressed with myself for not wobbling on my feet, and walk out.
Chapter Twelve
Carys
“I need to get out of these shoes,” I say, wincing.
I press my back against the wall to take the pressure off my feet. My 4-inch gold heels with a delicate wraparound strap that buckles at the ankle are dainty, sexy, and a terrible decision.
“Take them off,” my friend Taryn says. “No one will notice.”
“Yeah, but I feel like it’s a bad look, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.” She laughs.
“Every time I see someone without shoes on at a party, I think, Oh, that girl has been here far too long.” I make a face. “I don’t want to be that girl.”
I don’t want to be this girl either, but what can I do?
When I woke up this morning, I planned my outfit for tonight. I was wearing a simple black dress, black shoes, and gold jewelry. My hair would be a half-crown French braid. Simple, pretty, and low-maintenance.
And then the maintenance closet happened.
Taryn smiles. “Shoes or no shoes, you’re going to be the girl in that dress.”
“I’ll be the girl in that dress standing by the hottie in the corset top, maybe.”
She laughs. “I’m not going to argue with that. We both look hot.”
“Yes, you fucking do.” One of Tate’s friends, Reynolds, walks by and winks.
“Where’s Tate tonight?” Taryn asks, sipping her glass of wine. “I haven’t seen him, which is weird.”
“He’s not coming. His brother asked him to go on a trip with him, so he did that instead.”
She nods.
“I need another drink,” I say, getting steady on my feet again. “Maybe the next one will kill the pain.”
Reynolds motions for Taryn to join him on the sofa, so she goes that way while I head to the kitchen.
Courtney’s house is too cute for words. It’s an older home that’s been updated, and she’s started putting her touches on things. New crown molding and modern stair rails are already in place, and she mentioned being on the hunt for new rugs.
The music grows louder as I wind through the guests, and a roar of laughter filters in from the outside patio. I slip through the kitchen doorway and find the room to be empty. Thank God.
“Isn’t this unusual?” a voice says from behind me.
I turn around to see Courtney’s godmother, Margot, strolling into the room. Her bangles jingle as she stretches her arms, and bright red lips, wide.
“Margot,” I say, returning her smile. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Give me some sugar, honey.”
I laugh, giving her a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
“You look ravishing,” she says, twirling me in a slow circle so she can take me in from all angles. “If I looked like you, the world wouldn’t be safe.”
I laugh again, unable to stop smiling. “How are you? You look wonderful. Courtney said you’ve been in London.”
“Oh yes, honey. London, Paris, and Geneva. I have a home in London, as you probably know. Then I hopped over to Paris to visit a friend. Then other friends called and were in Geneva—so, why not?”
She finds a bottle of wine and pours herself a glass. Then she fills mine to the top.
“Thank you,” I say, sipping the top so it doesn’t spill. I set my phone on the counter so I can use both hands to keep it steady. “I need this.”
“That color is fantastic. What would you call it? Ruby? Currant?”
I glance down at my post-closet selection. Deep, deep V-cut that nearly touches my navel and required all the boob tape I own to stay in place. A slit from the bottom stops inches from my groin. And the fabric—soft with sparkles woven into the fibers—is ruched between the two points.
“Maybe scarlet? Garnet?” I offer.
“Whatever it is, it’s fantastic on you. So what have you been up to, darling? It’s been a while since we last spoke.”
I down half the glass of wine to bolster my confidence and to ease the distracting pulse in my soles.
“I started a business,” I say, watching her face for a reaction. “It’s called Plantcy.”
“Tell me your tagline is I’m so Plant-cy.”