Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Frankenstein.”
Hearing the name makes me turn my head, confused, looking for the source. A certain maid of honor in a floor-length, lilac-purple dress lifts her champagne flute in my direction, then gestures toward the dance floor with it. “That’s who he reminds me of when he dances.”
Elliana would be so pretty if she let herself be soft like this all the time. Somebody arranged her hair, so instead of it hanging limp around her shoulders and face, it’s gently curled and shining. Whoever did her makeup made her eyes pop—her glossy lips curve in a wry smirk as she lifts the champagne flute to them. “But it’s embarrassing the hell out of Mom, so I hope he never stops.”
“How much of that have you had?” Because she’s more open right now than she’s ever been. Like her walls have come down. I doubt that all has to do with what happened last night. If anything, she was giving me the cold shoulder today as we were forced to pose for photos together. I’ve had weeks of practice. It didn’t come as a big surprise.
Clearly, she’s in the same place I am right now: a little tipsy and too damn tired to care. Instead of answering my question, she heaves a sigh while looking over the lavishly decorated room. “Do you think there’s a flower left in town?” she asks. “I hope nobody else is expecting to find any this weekend.”
The thought of flowers reminds me of something. “Are you going to go out there and try to catch the bouquet later?”
She rolls her eyes, scoffing. “Are you kidding? Even if I wanted to, Mom would probably tell me not to waste my time.” Her voice shakes a little before she looks away.
I remember clearly everything Irene said to her last night. I think I would rather have no mother at all than a mother who would make me feel that small and worthless.
I don’t know why, but there’s something in me that wants to make her feel better. It has to be the champagne, or the exhaustion. “You look nice today.”
“Oh. Thank you. I hate this dress,” she mumbles, picking at the light, gauzy fabric. Yeah, I guess she would hate it. It’s sleeveless, low cut enough in the front to show cleavage. Everything she always tries to avoid.
“You look nicer than a lot of the women here.” I plop down into the chair next to hers, glad to get off my feet in a pair of dress shoes I didn’t remember to break in before today. I thought only women were supposed to complain about aching feet at events like this.
Gesturing with my flute, I lean a little closer to her so she can hear me. “Look at those cougars over there on the dance floor. Friends of your mom’s?”
She giggles, shaking her head. “Mom wishes. They’re wives of some of your dad’s friends.”
“Yeah, I guess I didn’t recognize them with all that makeup. Did they use a putty knife to put it on?” She laughs, and I laugh, and we watch the trio of women dancing around with their shoes in their hands, shaking their asses.
“So I look better than a bunch of middle-aged women. I don’t know if that’s really a compliment.” But her eyes are shining when they meet mine, and there’s a heartbeat when we’re just two people sitting together at a wedding—the most normal thing in the world.
But her smile fades quickly, replaced with a frown. “I know what you think of her. I mean, it’s not like you try to make it a secret or anything. And I’m not trying to start shit,” she adds when I lean back in the chair with a sigh. “I understand how you feel. I would feel the same way. This whole thing makes my skin crawl.”
Well, son of a bitch. So this is what it takes to turn her into a regular person and not some always-spooked robot who scurries through life like a timid little mouse. “What, because I have to be your stepbrother?”
“Do you want an honest answer to that?” But she’s grinning as she shrugs. “I mean, you haven’t exactly made it easy. But it’s just all so… obvious. Painfully obvious. She doesn’t know how trashy she makes herself look, how embarrassing she is. And I hate…” All of a sudden, her bottom lip almost disappears under her teeth before her head snaps back around, avoiding my gaze.
But it’s too late for that. “What? Go ahead,” I prompt. I never would’ve expected being able to relate to her—and now that it seems like I can, I want to know more.
Looking at me from the corner of her eye, I can sense her sizing me up. Wondering about my motive. Can she trust me? Can I blame her for wondering that? “I hate thinking people might, you know, lump me in with her. I hate that they would figure we’re the same kind of person because nothing could be further from the truth.” Then she tosses back the rest of her champagne all at once.