Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“One could argue that.” Her words are hazy and distant, almost as if she’s speaking solely to herself.
I lean back in my grandfather’s oversized chair, examining the fair-haired beauty across from me, briefly picturing what our child would look like, how her blonde hair and blue eyes would mix with my darker features.
“What is it you want out of life? Surely you haven’t come this far only to be a corporate slave the rest of your life. You’ve got to want something more for yourself.”
She appears to snap back into reality.
“I’ve only ever wanted to be happy,” she shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like she’s said it a million times to a million different people.
“And what does happiness look like for you?” I ask.
“Honestly …” She hesitates. “I don’t know.”
“Everyone knows,” I say. “Are you worried I’ll use it as leverage as we negotiate my offer?”
“The things I want can’t be bought.” She isn’t speaking my language, but she’s garnered my full attention.
“Everything can be bought.” At least in my world …
I’m always up for a friendly debate. Most people don’t tend to challenge me in conversations. They’re afraid to disagree. Afraid to be honest.
But Sophie Bristol isn’t like most people.
Sitting straighter, she adds, “You’re like a dog with a bone.”
I sip my bourbon, hiding a half-smile. “You and your compliments. See, I could tell you’re starting to like me …”
She rolls her eyes. And she hides her half-grin behind her wine glass, as if she could disguise the fact that she’s letting her guard down.
Rising, she makes her way to the other side of the room, perusing a shelf of antique encyclopedias.
“Back to your happiness …” I ask.
“Do you mind?” She points to the fifth one on the middle shelf, deflecting my question once more.
“Not at all.”
She flips the antique pages, one by one, tracing her fingers over the older-than-dirt paragraphs, taking her time, as if she’s lost in wonderment. Her eyes trace the words as she chews the inside of her lip.
I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking.
But I remind myself I’m getting there …
“Tell me about your last boyfriend.” I take a sip. “What was he like?”
Sophie closes the book and slides it back into place, keeping her back to me. “He was horrible.”
Interesting …
Turning around, she adds, “And that’s all I’m going to say.”
The last woman I dated would happily unleash a dumpster truck of verbal garbage about her exes if prompted. The one before used to “accidentally” send sexy pictures to her ex, claiming she’d confused “Trey” for “Trent” in her drunken haze. In the past, I only asked about previous involvements because I wanted to see if I could spot a pattern … if they tended to seek out a certain kind of man or if they tended to view their exes as inherently evil, if they refused to accept partial blame for the demise of the relationship. That sort of thing. It usually told me everything I needed to know—and often times told me it was time to walk away.
But Sophie’s dating history is a glaring question mark.
“Horrible. Wow. I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, infusing my tone with sympathy in hopes that she’ll keep the dialogue going.
“Tell me about your last girlfriend,” she flips the script.
“Ah. That would be Raquel. We lasted not quite two years. Fought like cats and dogs. Had no business being together,” I say, leaving out the part about it being mostly about sex. “After a while, she realized I loved work more than her, and I realized she loved coke more than me. We went our separate ways, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
“Do you ever wonder what she’s up to now?”
“Never.” And it’s the truth. Someone told me once she was making her rounds in Hollywood, bouncing from C-list actor to C-list actor. I told them she could be fucking a limp-dicked gnome for all I care. “Do you ever think about your ex?”
“Never on purpose.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s in the news sometimes …”
“Would I know him?”
“You know a lot of people,” she says, lips angling up at the side as if she finds that fact amusing. “So probably.”
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“What’s it matter?” She answers my question with a question. Typical. “It’s in the past.”
“Is it though? Seems like he did a number on you.” I toss back the rest of my bourbon. “I’d say that hurt is alive and well—some could argue it’s in this very room.”
“You mentioned you had some Renoirs? And a couple Monets? I’d love to see them.” Her voice sparkles with admiration. Once more, she’s flipped a switch.
She really has a knack for this—turning her emotions on and off, swapping one for another.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
I make a mental note to see if Broderick’s uncovered any of her dating history yet. With enough digging, we should be able to find something … especially if her boyfriend was in the public eye.