Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“It’s good to have goals, but also the comfort of what is familiar to fall back on while you dream.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what is the venue? A gallery?”
“It used to be. I mean, I don’t think the Chrises knew a Vermeer from a Warhol, and my boss lives in a brutalist-style home, so it’s completely empty of art. But they like to appear to be into the same things a lot of the clients are: art, golf, the opera, classical music. Do you play golf?”
“I think I prefer my sports to be more… active. To be fair, I’ve never played golf.”
“Here we are,” I said as the venue loomed just ahead of us.
“A library?” Owen asked.
“Yep. It’s actually a really gorgeous location. You’ll see.”
We pulled up to the curb then, and Owen slid out and offered his hand.
His hand closed around mine, rough and warm, and for a strange second I had the overwhelming sensation of two completely different parts of my life colliding.
There was Willa, the financial advisor. The woman who wore silk blouses and carried a portfolio instead of a diaper bag. The woman who knew which fork to use at dinner and which clients preferred Bordeaux over Burgundy.
And then there was the woman who spent her days watching Tuna swim laps in the pool while she rocked her baby beside a laughing Owen.
I had no idea which version of me he was seeing right then.
Maybe both.
And, unexpectedly, I liked that.
Because Owen didn’t seem overly impressed by the house or the money or the expensive things inside. He’d never once treated me like I was more important because of what I owned.
He just looked at me.
Saw me.
That was becoming a dangerous habit of his.
“Do you?” he asked. My mind was blank. “Play golf,” he clarified.
“Oh, God. Please, for my sake, if at all possible, do not bring up me and golf in the same conversation with anyone in there.”
“Were you stuck in the sand?”
“I was stuck in the woods on the side of the course.”
That deep chuckle of his moved through his chest and burst out as he offered his arm, and we made our way up the steps to the library.
It was an ancient structure, all natural stone, corbels, medallions, and tinted windows.
We stopped in the lobby, checking in with the smartly dressed staff before being guided in toward the library itself.
It reminded me of the libraries at some of the nicest universities, with four floors of endless stacks, Gothic stone accents, and two rows of desks on the lowest level.
Anything modern—computers, printers, televisions—was removed before the party each year.
“Wow,” Owen said, nodding as he took everything in.
“Yeah. The atmosphere is the only thing that makes these events worth it. Well, the atmosphere and the food.”
“Willa,” my boss called, his voice a mix of surprise and annoyance. Almost as if he’d been expecting me to back out at the last moment. Just so he could hold that over my head, write me up about it, get a paper trail going for the eventual firing he planned to do.
“Martin,” I greeted. My smile was plastic and my tone tight, but my boss didn’t seem to notice.
Martin was what you thought of when you thought of an older man desperately clinging to the idea of youth. His face was pulled tight and artificially tan. He had thick hair courtesy of a suspiciously long ‘vacation’ trip to Turkey. The color? Courtesy of his weekly visits to a salon. Which I knew because his previous secretary had been fired when she’d refused his advances and spilled all his dirty laundry to me as we rode the elevator down together.
He was still a decently good-looking guy, but in my humble opinion, he would have been more handsome if he didn’t look so plastic.
“Martin, this is Owen. Owen, my boss, Martin,” I introduced as the man moved to stand in front of us.
Owen stretched out his hand, and I could tell by the way Martin stiffened that Owen had a punishing grip. Whether that was done intentionally or simply the result of having a manual job and strong hands was anyone’s guess. Either way, I enjoyed the way Martin’s hand was white when Owen released it.
“I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from the baby,” Martin said, making my stomach twist at the mention of her. “When my wife had our babies, she wouldn’t leave the house for months.”
Oh, the bastard.
The comment landed harder than it should have. Not because I didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but because he’d managed to turn something I was already anxious about into evidence that I was failing.
Owen’s hand slid from my arm to curl around my hip instead. I could practically hear his thoughts: Don’t take the bait.
“Luckily, Willa has a huge, very involved family who are always chomping at the bit to get to spend some time with the baby. It makes it easy to take the occasional night out without having to worry about anything.”