Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Tenderness swells so hard and fast it hurts my chest. My lips lift in return before wobbling. August steps forward, moving past his siblings. Apparently, seeing me on the verge of crying is his hard limit for staying away.
“Just in time,” Margo announces to her brood. “You all can help finish assembling the tortellini.”
Groans fill the air. I rise and, holding August’s gaze, glance toward our room before heading that way. Mom squeezes my hand as I leave the table.
Thirty-Eight
Pen
We don’t say anything until we’re shut in our room. I head to the center of the space before turning to face him. He studies me a moment, the dark slashes of his brows lowering over cool eyes.
“Are you okay?”
The sound of his voice has my heart leaping. I press a hand to my chest and hope he can see the sincerity in my eyes. “I’m all right. August, I’m sorry I told you to go—”
“Can I hold you?” His expression tightens, and he takes a step forward. “We don’t have to talk. I just want to hold you.”
My lower lip wobbles before I bite it hard and nod. I don’t know who moves first but I walk into his arms, and he cuddles me close, pressing his lips to the top of my head. Still carrying a hint of frost, he smells of lake water and coffee. I snuggle closer, wrapping my arms around his waist.
“I’m sorry,” I say. And then start to cry.
“Penelope.” He cups the back of my head in his big hand and strokes my back with the other.
“I’m sorry.” I sob, burrowing my face into the wall of his chest. “So sorry.”
He stills, realizing that I’m talking about more than just us, then he adjusts his hold so I’m somehow closer. “I know it hurts. It’s okay. I got you. I got you.”
When I sob harder, he dips down, kisses my damp temple. “He’s a pathetic asshole. You’re the very best of him, and he’ll never get it.”
Shuddering, I settle, letting the feel of August rocking me slowly sink into my tense limbs.
“I know that’s not enough,” he says in the quiet. “And I fucking hate that I can’t make it better.”
“But you do.” My voice crackles with tears, and I lick my swollen lips before leaning back to meet his eyes. “You always do, Pickle. You walk into a room, and I feel it. Know it. And I’m . . . better.”
August’s eyes close as though he’s taken a blow. He rests his forehead against mine and cups my cheeks with his hands. “You don’t know how good it is to hear that.”
I hug him tighter. “I am sorry I sent you away. I was freaking out and I just needed a moment.”
“You can have that anytime.” He rubs my wet cheeks with his thumbs. “I shouldn’t have pressed you when you weren’t ready.”
“No, you can. I like that you care. It’s just my dad—” My voice breaks, and I take a deep breath. I don’t want to cry over him anymore.
“Come here.” Grabbing a box of tissues by the bed, he takes my hand. Gently, he leads me to the big armchair by the window and sits down before pulling me into the shelter of his lap. I lean against him, and he palms my hip as I blow my nose and settle.
We sit quietly, watching the gray skies roil outside the window. Ripples spread over the lake as strong gusts come down the hills. Slowly, steadily, I relax into August. He’s warm now, solid and comforting beneath me. When I’m calm, I sit up and place a hand on his chest to feel the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat.
He looks at me with worry in his eyes. “All right, Sweets?”
“Yeah.” I ease off his lap. “I’m going to go wash my face.”
When I come back from the bathroom, August is carrying in a tray with two bowls of tortellini in brodo on it. He toes the door closed behind him and sets the tray on the little end table between the bed and the chair. I perch on the side of the bed and take a bowl.
We eat in relative silence, me still raw and he still restrained. But the hot savory broth with floating pillows of tender pasta fill me up and warm my bones.
“This is fantastic,” August says, looking at me with awe. “I can’t believe you made this.”
“I only made the pasta dough. Our mothers did the rest.”
“The pasta is the hardest part,” he points out, finishing up his bowl.
“I’ve been doing it so long, it feels more like meditation than work.”
Setting his bowl aside, August leans back in the chair and surveys me as though putting small pieces together. “It’s hard for you to accept praise, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t it for everyone?” I stack the empty bowls.