Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“I really fucked up, Ripley,” he begins, regret thick in his voice.
“Me too,” I say.
He shakes his head as if rejecting that thought. “It was my fault. All mine.”
“It was ours,” I say.
“No. It was mine,” he insists, proving that he only blames himself. He scrubs a hand down his face. “Webflix canceled the meeting. Just now.”
My heart plummets. This is worse than I’d thought. So much worse with him losing business. “Because of the pictures?”
He breathes out hard through his nostrils. His fists are clenched. Every muscle in his body is taut. “Because I didn’t act like a fucking professional. Because I didn’t do my job. Because I’m a goddamn liability. I prided myself on protecting you at all costs. I take every job seriously. I looked out for you every second of the day, and what happened? I wound up in the press for falling in love with you.” He stabs his chest with his finger. “I’m not supposed to fall in love. I’m supposed to protect you. Perfectly.”
My heart aches so much I can’t even process the terrible beauty of those words—falling in love.
The words come with a cost. And the cost is coming. Still, my impulse to take care of everything is too strong to ignore. “You can’t beat yourself up,” I say gently, trying to shoulder some of the blame.
“But I can, and I will. This is on me. I’m just like my father.”
This poor man. “You’re not,” I say, emphatic as I shake my head.
He’s silent for a beat—a long, thoughtful one that lets me hope he’ll see the difference between himself and the man who lied about an entire second family.
“Fine. Maybe I’m not,” he says quietly, and a sliver of sunshine warms me. Then it disappears behind a cloud when he adds, “But I still can’t get away with this.”
I brace myself. I knew this was coming because I know this man. He’ll take it all on. He’ll think he can control everything. And he’ll want to pay the price.
So I have to do the right thing, and I must do it before he can. If he says the next thing he came here to say, he’ll hate himself even more than he does now. I won’t let that happen.
“Banks,” I begin, the word scraping my throat raw. But he’s not the only one who knows how to protect the people they love. I can protect him too. From himself. I won’t make this any harder for him than it already is. I won’t fight it. I won’t try to convince him he’s wrong. Nor will I let him be the one to pull the trigger.
I get the words out first: “I think we should…stop.”
The word burns my tongue as I break it off.
But when he nods gratefully, muttering a terribly heavy, “We should,” I know, too, that I had to be the one to do it. This way, he won’t entirely blame himself. I suppose that’s the only gift I can give him right now.
Sometimes you just have to let go of the ones you love.
45
YOU AND NOTTING HILL
RIPLEY
I should have done this weeks ago. When Haven’s finished shooting for the day, she meets me in the kitchen. I texted her earlier, asking if she could talk. Her jaw is set, her gaze wary, but curious.
She peers toward the front door. “This isn’t very private. Anyone could come in here.”
She sounds…professional. I feel awful. But I’m supposed to feel bad because I fucked up. “Let’s go to—”
“The lavender maze.”
That’s where we used to escape to when we were kids. The fact that she picked it gives me hope that I’m not the worst sister in the world. But Haven shakes her head, dismissing the maze idea. “Actually, I don’t want to deal with bodyguards watching us.”
“Me neither,” I say, and when my gaze drifts to the staircase heading to the garden level, it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing.
Grandma’s suite. Fitting, since Grandma’s is where we’ve both always felt safest.
We head downstairs and rap on the door. It’s perfunctory, though, since after her in-person French class, she went out with friends. I go inside, and we sink down on the couch.
I don’t mince words. “I should have told you sooner.”
“Yeah, like all the times I asked,” she says pointedly.
She’s right. “I’m sorry,” I say, guilt twisting in me. I almost say I wanted to but didn’t, or I tried to, but it never felt right.
But it doesn’t matter. She asked, and I denied it.
Her blue eyes hold mine, and I don’t see forgiveness yet. “Why didn’t you?” she asks gently.
I blow out a big breath. It’s such a loaded question. It has too many answers. But there’s no need to hold back now. “Because I didn’t want to worry you. Because I told him I’d keep it between us. Because I wanted your first big role to go off without a hitch. Because I didn’t want to pull focus away from the film and on to me. Because it’s such a huge chance to bring attention to the farm that Mom and Dad built, to the town they loved. And I didn’t want anything to take away from that. And because I didn’t want the relationship to go south and then have you worry about me,” I say, my voice choking on the bitter irony. “I never want you to worry about me.”