Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
But I say none of that. We sit in awkward silence.
“What are you going to do for work?” he asks as the city comes into view, rising almost threateningly on the skyline.
“I’ll work something out,” I murmur.
“I’ll give you a good reference,” he says.
“Thanks, Gray.”
I want to put my hand on his arm. I want to tell him that I feel it too, that all-too-natural attraction that brought us together and makes the idea of separating feel physically painful.
There’s a traffic jam heading into the city. He brings the car to a stop, drumming his fingers on the wheel, glancing at me, his fierce eyes holding me in place. He makes every moment seem significant somehow.
“I want you to know, last night, all that stuff I said…”
“It was heavy,” I murmur.
“Did it scare you?”
“It probably should have, right?”
He puts his hand on my leg. Dammit. I wish he wouldn’t do that, and yet I wish he’d never stop, either. An electric feeling sizzles up my thigh, goes straight to my core, and makes my belly tighten. The more time we spend together, the more difficult the idea of separating becomes. It’s like fate put this traffic jam here to force us to be together just a little longer.
“But did it?” he says fiercely.
“You can’t have meant it,” I murmur. “All that stuff… it was so intense, so fast. There’s no way you looked at some curvy girl from the city, your nanny, and thought, yeah, she’s the one. We’re going to be together forever. That’s just not how people think.”
He removes his hand, letting out a tired sigh. It’s not as if I’ve outright rejected him, but there’s enough of a flavor of rejection there to make him back off. And, conveniently, it means I don’t have to give him my answer. Did it freak me out?
My belly tingles, my thigh aching with the phantom sensation of where he touched. No—it didn’t. In fact, when he was saying all those things, I felt like I was in a story, magical notes of longing thrumming in my heart. I felt like all the nasty untruths I’ve told myself for so long—nobody can love me, I’m not attractive, I’m destined to be alone—came crashing down.
I have to think of Emery. Of reality. We live in the real world, not one of those romances I’m constantly losing myself in.
“Sometimes, I think I’ve been living on half speed,” Gray says huskily as the traffic begins to move. “There’s always been something holding me back, something deep inside. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s just my nature. Maybe it was the belief I would never, could never care. But lately, I’m beginning to wonder if I should take a leap, Callie. If I should stop questioning everything I think, everything I feel.”
I swallow, my heart thundering. It’s like he’s describing my own emotions. “It feels like there’s always been this hill,” I murmur. “In your mind, stopping you from acting, stopping you from being like everybody else. And no matter how hard you try or wish you were made different, you just can’t climb it.”
“Yes,” he says passionately. “Exactly.”
“Maybe if it was just us, we could climb the hill together,” I murmur. “But if we fall, it won’t just be me and you who fall. And you have to think about Sloane. I’m sorry, Gray.”
As the traffic stops again, he turns to me. His eyes are hard. His lips quiver. He looks like a man on the edge of saying something meaningful. My heart pangs with the memory of last night, all those profound words he threw at me. But then he murmurs, “Me too.” And turns back to the road.
***
“I can help you with your things,” he says, grabbing a bag from the back of the car and frowning at my apartment building.
“What?” I ask.
“What?” he echoes.
“That look on your face. I know it’s nothing compared to your place, but it’s the best I can do.”
“I’m not judging you,” he says. “Come on.”
“My dad might be home,” I tell him. “Just to warn you.”
“Is that a problem?” he asks.
I shrug. I don’t know why the thought makes me so nervous. Possibly, it’s because it feels like more than an employer—or ex-employer—meeting my dad.
We head upstairs. I was right. Dad’s in the living room, standing at the window with his old camera in his hand. He always wanted to pursue photography, but the cult had a bunch of bogus rules about personal expression. Dad turns, smiling. He’s on the shorter side, gray hair peeled over the bald spot on top, with a warm expression that the world has never been able to beat down.
“Dad,” I say. “This is Gray. Gray, this is my dad, Sebastian.”
Dad lays his camera down and approaches Gray, offering his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”