Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
From him.
I straighten my tray and walk out of the ballroom without a second glance. I find an empty cart in the hallway, dump my tray on it. I pick up a champagne glass and keep walking. I’m pretty sure drinking the champagne meant for the guests is also not allowed, but I can’t follow all the rules when my heart is breaking inside my chest.
I keep walking until I reach the exit that will take me to the back gardens and burst through the doors. The grounds beyond are vast and dark, and I cut to the tree line flanking the grounds on both sides. I find myself a quiet, secluded corner and there, leaning against a tree, I take a deep breath and gulp down my stolen champagne. I empty the glass and let the sparkling liquid buzz down my throat.
And then I close my stinging eyes—I wish I could say it’s from the alcohol, but it’s my tears—and tell myself I’m being ridiculous. So what if he proposed? So what if he’s going to get married? I always knew it was going to happen one day. Well, I didn’t actively think about it, but it makes sense. Plus, I’m acting like I expected I’d be the one to marry him. Just the thought is so ridiculous that I want to laugh. And then I want to cry.
First, I’m not at all his type. I’m a redhead with skin that burns too easily. Oh, and is riddled with freckles. I’m not busty or curvy by any stretch of the imagination. My sense of glamour is limited to shorts and a t-shirt with dusty sneakers that I’ve owned since freshman year of high school.
But more importantly, he’s my stepbrother. His asshole abusive father is married to my mother who still hates me. They’re just as much married today as they were a little over eight years ago when I snuck out to the Thorne house to tell them about it. And no, I didn’t tell them that night, or ever, but that doesn’t make it any less true. So I’m being crazy right now. I’m being absolutely insane and delusional and—
“You sure you should be drinking that?”
My eyes pop open and for a few seconds, all I can do is stare. At the man in front of me. Then I let out a shriek. It’s short and high-pitched. Not because I don’t know who it is. I shriek and drop my champagne glass—fucking shit—because I know exactly who’s there.
He’s gotten rid of his suit jacket and his bow tie. He’s also opened the top two buttons of his shirt and folded his sleeves up to his elbows as if both he and his hands needed to breathe, and they couldn’t. Not with all the trappings, not in the ballroom. But his chest swelling like a big wave makes me think he can now that he is here.
“I dropped my glass,” I blurt out stupidly.
Because what the fuck?
What is he doing out here? What is he doing, talking to me?
He glances down to the glass, or rather the broken pieces of it scattered on the grass between us. Then, looking up, “Yeah, you did.”
God, his voice.
It’s one of my favorite things about him. All deep like a well and rough like the sand. And arrogant. So very arrogant. It’s like he knows something you don’t. Some secret that you’ll never be privy to.
I look up as well and say more asinine things. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No?”
“No.” I shake my head, my eyes still wide and shocked. “My boss is going to fire me.”
“Over a broken glass?”
“Yes. It’s my third strike.”
He keeps staring at me, his eyes pitch black in the darkness, but I know their real color is dark brown, rich and velvety. “What were your other two strikes?”
“Red hair,” I tell him.
“What?”
Then like a crazy person, I point to my curls. Even though I have my hair tied up in a ponytail, it must be super messy by now, all big and frizzy after hours of going back and forth between the kitchen and the ballroom. That’s the thing about my hair. No amount of product can ever tame my curls. I try, but everything fails after an hour or two.
I hate it. I hate my hair.
I hate that this is the first thing I comment on while talking to him—am I really talking to him though, or is this a dream?—for the first time in eight freaking years. And now his eyes are up there, taking in my most dreaded feature. Well, not my most dreaded, because that title belongs to my freckles, but still, my crazy hair is definitely up there.
But now that I’ve brought it up, I need to finish the story. “Well, uh, my boss thinks redheads are crazy.” Finally, his eyes come back to mine and I continue, “Something about his first wife. She was a redhead too.”