Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
But the knot in my stomach has nothing to do with the song. I don’t care for that little knot. I don’t care for it at all.
Please be earrings, I beg any deity who will listen. Or better yet, cuff links for his dad . . .
I flip open the box and don’t realize I’m holding my breath until it comes out with an agonized whoosh.
Not earrings. Not cuff links.
A ring. An engagement ring.
It’s . . . well, it’s beautiful.
And huge.
Apparently, Tom has decided to upgrade this time around.
Bigger diamond.
Oh yeah, and a wife who isn’t emotionally stunted.
I bite my lip as I ease the ring out of the box to get a better look. It really is beautiful. I don’t know much about diamonds, but I know this one is shiny, enormous, and expensive.
And yet . . .
I like my ring better. Well, not mine anymore. But when it was mine, I loved it with its smaller stone and intricate setting that had been popular in Tom’s great-great-grandparents’ day.
Giving that ring back hurt, even though I knew it was the right thing to do. It’s a family heirloom that belongs in the Walsh family, not on the fourth finger of the woman who was kicked out of the family.
Still, that ring had meant something to me, something more than just a symbol of a ceremony. That ring had let me know that someone had my back. Its subtle twinkle had made late nights in the office easier because I knew there would be someone at home waiting for me.
That ring had let me know I had a partner. The kind of partner that matters so much more than my name on the door of my law firm.
But as painful as returning the ring was, I’ve sometimes thought that keeping it might have hurt more. A reminder that nobody is at home waiting for me anymore. That I no longer have a partner.
So, I returned it, and I know Tom got it because his mother confirmed it was back in the family safe.
I frown. So why isn’t he giving that ring to Lolo? Walsh family tradition willed it to the oldest son, to be given to his wife. Which Lolo is clearly destined to be because there’s no way the rock in front of me isn’t an engagement ring.
But why a shiny new one? Why not the ring?
Honestly, though, I’m as relieved as I am confused.
As much as it hurts to know that things with Lolo and Tom are far more serious than I’ve ever let myself contemplate, it would hurt even more knowing she would be getting that ring.
Because it still feels like mine.
He still feels like mine.
I swallow, surprised by the strength of possessiveness that makes my throat ache. Did I feel this way yesterday? Before Tom burst back into my life in that infuriating, all-consuming way of his?
Before I was reminded how much he drives me nuts.
And before I was forced to relive just how good we are together.
For all that went wrong between us, there’s something that crackles inside me when I’m near him. As though I’m finally coming back online after a long outage.
Damn it. I miss Tom.
And there have been moments when I could have sworn he missed me too. He kept that silly key chain, for Christ’s sake. That has to mean something.
But that’s merely a token. A memory.
This ring in front of me? It’s a hell of a lot more than a token, and the woman it’s meant for will eventually replace any and all memories of me.
I hear the squeak of the tub’s faucet as Tom turns off the water and jump so hard at the sudden silence that I drop the ring.
“Shit,” I mutter as the ring bounces onto the disgusting carpet. I pick it up and give it a quick blow before setting it back into its box and shoving the whole thing back in Tom’s bag.
I hurriedly refasten the briefcase clip and dive into bed, only to hiss out a string of four-letter words when the cut on my back screams in pain.
Right along with my heart.
My teeth are still clenched when, a few moments later, Tom opens the bathroom door. “Katherine. You awake?” he whispers.
I say nothing. I’m too afraid of what might spill out.
I hear the rustle of him pulling the sheets back on his bed. “I have to wake you every few hours. Doctor’s orders. Try to remember that when you want to kill me.”
Again, I say nothing. It’s cowardly, I know, feigning sleep to avoid a hard conversation. But right now, the only alternative is Tom knowing I’m about to cry myself to sleep.
And that is not—has never been—an option.
THIRTY
TOM
December 24, 7:04 a.m.
The following morning, I flip up the collar of my coat to block out the worst of the frigid wind and then do what I do best: