Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
“So you two are just friends,” she states this time, and I hear the doubt there, the way she’s protecting herself by not fully believing me. I can’t be upset with anyone but myself; I hadn’t been forthright with her in the beginning.
“Yes.” I cup her face in both hands. “Friends. The kind who cover for each other when our mothers get too involved. She’s happy for me, Mable. She told me so.”
Mable’s tongue swipes her bottom lip again, a nervous habit I’m starting to recognize. “Your mother said you’ve never brought anyone to a family event before.”
“Never.” I kiss her forehead, her temple, anywhere I can reach. “Because there was never anyone worth bringing. Until you.”
She melts against me then, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. But I can still feel it there, coiled tight beneath the surface. The doubt my mother planted. I’ll be having a talk with her about it later. Once she understands what Mable means to me, she’ll soften.
“My mom just doesn’t understand yet,” I murmur against her hair. “She’s protective; she tests people, but she’s going to love you. I know she will.”
Mable pulls back slightly, searching my face. “What if she doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll choose you.” The words come out without thought, but I mean them. I’ve never meant anything more. I won’t allow anyone to take her from me. I have made many sacrifices for my country and family. Mable isn’t going to be one of them. “Every time. I don’t care about the crown or the name or any of it. I care about you.”
She stares at me, something shifting in her expression. Hope, maybe. Or fear that I’m lying. I can’t tell which, and I fucking hate it.
“We should get ready,” she says softly. “The wedding.”
“Right.” I force myself to release her, though every instinct screams to hold on tighter. But maybe at the wedding she’ll see how serious I am about her. “I had them send up options for dresses, whatever you need.”
She nods, moving toward the bedroom door, but pauses with her hand on the frame. “Caldwell?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret trusting you.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond, disappearing into the bedroom, and I’m left standing there. I won’t. I can’t.
But as I hear her moving around in the other room, I can’t shake the feeling that my mother has already done damage I can’t see yet. She is good at planting seeds to bloom on their own; that way she doesn’t appear culpable, keeping her hands mostly clean. It’s her way when it comes to most things, but she’s quickly going to learn that Mable isn’t one of them.
I pull out my phone and text my mother.
Me: You met her. Why didn’t you tell me?
Her response comes immediately: Of course I did.
That’s all she says, which is a clue in and of itself, because I sure as fuck thought she’d be excited over this. She’s been hounding me about settling down. It shouldn’t surprise me that even that would come with some sort of strings or control.
Leave her alone, I type back. This is not a game. She’s mine.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then: We’ll see.
Me: You don’t want to push me on this one. Believe me, mother.
I toss the phone onto the couch and drag a hand through my hair. The wedding starts soon. I need to be charming, social, and the perfect Montclair heir. I run my hand down my face and go change. My brother can be a pain in my ass, an endearing one, so I will not be late to his wedding. I haven’t even met his bride. I guess it’s fitting since he hasn’t met mine yet either.
I quickly shower, not bothering to shave again. I might be a dick for that reason, but I could see the marks my short beard had left behind on Mable’s inner thighs. I plan on having a repeat of that.
I pull on the tuxedo waiting in the garment bag. Black tie, the kind of event I’ve attended a hundred times before. Usually I’d be dreading it—the small talk, the political maneuvering, the women my mother parades past me like specimens.
Not tonight. Tonight I get to walk in with Mable on my arm. I grab my phone and send a text to my dad. If anyone can get my mother to calm down, it’s him. But I also know she won’t make a scene, not in front of people.
I’m adjusting my cufflinks when the bedroom door opens.
My girl stands there in emerald green, and I forget how to breathe. The dress is perfect—dark green tulle that catches the light, high-waisted and flaring into a full skirt that moves when she does. The slit up the front shows just enough leg to make me want to follow it with my hands. Her hair still falls in those soft waves around her beautiful face.