Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“My brother is fucking awesome,” I went on. “He’s a way better man than your daughter deserves. You would be lucky to get to know him. But you never will, because you don’t care. You don’t care if Catherine is happy with him. You probably don’t care that your daughter fucked some rando in your study during your garden party. You’d probably be fine with it, as long as the guy had a lot of money, right?”
“Charlotte,” Matt said again, a little firmer.
“Oh, hush,” I admonished him. “I haven’t heard you defending Scott. I’ve heard plenty of excuses for Catherine. But not once have you mentioned that my brother is a far better man than someone as stuck up and snobby as your mother could ever dream of having as a son-in-law. He’s not going to cheat on Catherine! He’s not going to have a secret family! And you know that, Matt! You know it and you’re not saying a word in his defense.”
To my surprise, he turned to his mother and said, “It’s true, you know. He’s not going to hurt Catherine or make her feel unloved. He’ll make her far happier than Jackson has.”
“And I suppose someone who behaves like this—” his mother pointed violently in my direction “—is going to make you happy?”
My rage was still in code red status, so I answered for him. “Yes. Yes, I make him happy. That’s why he loves me. That’s why he’s never going to do to me the shit that his father did to you, or the shit that your son-in-law did to your daughter. And if he did, I damn sure wouldn’t expect my own mother to throw a sobbing fit about all the money I was losing. I would expect her to give a shit about me and my feelings. Like an actual mother. Like an actual mother who loves her daughter would do automatically, no questions asked!”
“How dare you!” Elizabeth shot to her feet, but I was already on my way out. She continued to rant at my retreating back. “I love my children! I want what’s best for them!”
Allan stepped into my path as if to stop me from leaving, and I raised my hands, fully intending to push him aside if I had to. I wasn’t going to stand there and listen to any more of that old bitch feeling sorry for herself because her daughter chose love and happiness and—
Ugh, my fucking brother! My phone was in the inside pocket of my blazer, and I fumbled for it as I stalked toward the terrace doors. I needed to breathe. Or scream. Or both. Either way, I couldn’t do it in the house.
I pulled up my favorite contacts and stabbed at his number, then held the phone to my ear as I threw the door open and stomped through. That was how serious—and seriously fucked up—the situation was: I called first instead of texting.
A part of me expected him to pick up. To apologize profusely, to acknowledge that he’d complicated my life, too. That he should have given me some kind of warning. Hell, that he could have even warned Matt about all this before we sailed into the most petty, upside-down, back-asswards bullshit storm of all time.
But of course, he didn’t answer. It went to his generic voicemail message.
“Fuck you!” I shouted. “Call me, you stupid asshole!”
I ended the call and briefly considered chucking my phone down the granite steps, but even in my near-blackout rage I understood how antithetical that would be to my request that the stupid asshole call me back.
An autumn breeze cooled my flaming face and brought me back to myself a little, and as my pulse rate slowed, the damage I’d done finally caught up to me. All the things I’d shouted, at Matt’s mother, of all people. With all of her emphasis on society and decorum and appearances. To her, what I’d done was unforgivable. And it wasn’t her forgiveness I was worried about.
What about Matt?
What if he didn’t forgive me?
What if we were…
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
(Matt)
I found Charlotte on the terrace, clutching her phone in both hands and staring off at the gardens. When she heard me approach, she turned, her tear-streaked face ashen.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her knuckles white around her phone. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t apologize.” I went to her side and put my arms around her, though she seemed frozen in her current position. “She’ll get over it. Or she won’t. Either way, it needed to be said.”
What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I scolded Charlotte for defending her brother, and by extension, herself? Maybe a better boyfriend would have stepped in and done it himself, but Charlotte had been on a roll.
“Honestly, I wanted to say the same thing,” I began, kissing her forehead. “But I was afraid that I’d be next in line for the guillotine if I interrupted.”