Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“Happy early Father’s Day, then,” I replied stiffly.
“Quite the fuckin’ upgrade from the perfectly acceptable mug you had them give me in June,” he snapped. “I guess I’ll tell them to choose something other than a tie for you next year? Maybe a yacht would be more appropriate? You have a birthday comin’ up too. You want a house in the Hamptons?”
I gnashed my teeth. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll return it—”
“Fuck no! You gave it to me—it’s mine.” As he spoke, irritated and ever so unpredictable, he removed his old watch. “It’s mine. Put it on me. Fuck me, it’s breathtaking—but you’re off your damn rocker, West. Tell me why you gave me this.”
Roll with the punches, roll with the punches, roll with the punches.
“I wanted you to have it.” I got to touch him again, even if it was only his wrist.
“Bullshit. We’ve been over this. Is this platinum?”
I had to take a calming breath and slow things down. When Alfie grew heated and started thinking out loud, it was too easy to get swept away by his ranty monologue.
“It is. And I did want you to have it,” I insisted. “But yes, I anticipated a signature Alfie Scott reaction to go with it.” I pretended to struggle with the double clasp of the watch, just so I could brush my fingertips over the ink around his wrists.
Since the first time I’d seen his inked body, I’d discovered numerous designs I wanted to ask him about. I’d spotted our children’s birthdates, of course. Ireland, Puerto Rico, and Italy were heavily represented in the artwork. But so was I, which meant he’d chosen to eternalize memories from our years together even when he’d been trying to recover from our divorce.
I remembered the restaurant I’d taken him to for our first date, and it couldn’t be a coincidence he had the street sign for that address inked right there on his arm.
“O’Dwyer,” he said quietly.
No.
I swallowed hard. That was a gut punch. Nausea crawled up my throat.
“You changed it back?” I finished fastening the watch and had to withdraw my hands.
He studied his watch and brushed his thumb over the crown. “Not yet, but it’s on my list for next week.”
Fuck.
“Scott suits you better.” I had absolutely no right to say that.
He chuckled and peered up at me with the biggest fuck-you smile I’d ever seen.
“If it wasn’t for this watch, this is where I woulda told you to go fuck yourself,” he said. “Don’t do this to me, West. Just don’t. It’s cruel.”
I knew it was, and I felt like the biggest piece of shit on earth.
I was desperate, though. I woke up broken, and I went to bed broken. I’d made a decision that made it impossible for us to get another chance, and yet that was all I wanted.
I had to clear my throat as more emotions threatened to surface, and I didn’t know how to be honest with him without losing my composure.
Fuck composure.
“I…I don’t know how to let you go,” I managed to get out. He immediately clenched his jaw and looked away. “I can’t even fake it anymore, Alfie. I can’t sleep, I have little to no appetite, and I—”
“Figure it out.” He got angry, and I couldn’t blame him. He shot me a glare that was so packed with hurt that I instinctively reached for his hand again, but he shook his head and stepped back. “No, you can’t do this to me. I keep thinking there’s nothing left for you to break, and then you pull some shit…and here I am again. Motherfucker—” He stepped back even more, and he scrubbed his hands over his face.
“I’m so sorry, Alfie.” I coughed into my fist, and sharp jabs of panic attacked me from within. What the fuck was wrong with me? What had I done? “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “This is my mess to deal with. I’ll…” A breath gusted out of me, and I hurriedly wiped at my cheek as a traitorous tear rolled down. “I’ll handle this on my own. I apologize.”
He stared at me tiredly, half turned away, as if all he wanted was to find the nearest escape route.
“You’re not well,” he murmured.
A new round of tears welled up, and I exhaled a laugh at the ridiculousness of my life. “No, I’m really not. I think I’ve hit rock bottom, to be honest with you.” I sniffled and did my best to push back my emotions.
His jaw ticked with tension, and he looked to be struggling with something. Whatever it was, I’d made it worse. Except, his expression lost some of its hostility when he inched closer to me again, and it was replaced by defeat.
His next move shocked me. He closed the distance between us and hugged me, much like I’d done the night he’d returned from his “work emergency.” I screwed my eyes shut and squeezed him to me for all I was worth, and I wondered if I looked as broken as he had that night.