Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Fuck off, Summer.”
I can’t believe I say it, but it’s out there, and Summer doesn’t wince at the words. She fights back.
“No, actually, you fuck off, Nate. God, pull your head out of your ass and wake up! Look around! You’re the only enemy you have! Whatever you’ve convinced yourself of, whatever nonsense you’ve used to build a wall around your ego…” She pauses, breathing hard. “It’s no longer serving you.”
Our eyes lock in battle. This thing between us would burn us if we tried to touch it. Fire. No…hotter. Red-hot magma.
She shakes her head like she’s through with me, and then she turns to stomp up the stairs.
“But what do I care?! Keep on living this way.” Then quieter, when she’s nearly upstairs, she mumbles to herself, “Schrödinger’s cat, my ass.”
It makes me smile despite myself.
I didn’t think Summer had it in her—fighting words. She’s so soft, feminine from her head to her toes, those delicate features and fair skin. It makes it all the more astounding to realize she’s filled with passion. Though of course she is. I wouldn’t be drawn to her otherwise.
I had to keep myself from staring at her at dinner. She enchanted us all. We listened to her talk, drawn to everything she had to say. Oliver, Mike, Freya, Alice—they weren’t shy about their infatuation with her. She blended into the group seamlessly. I was the problem, the one with the sour attitude.
I reach into my cabinet near the sink, grab ahold of an old bottle of whiskey, and take a seat in my chair in front of the fire—the one that now smells like Summer.
Dog’s gone. He wandered home just before I left for dinner, probably sensing the storm brewing in the cottage. I wish he were here now. He’d put his head on my lap and offer me some semblance of comfort, more than I have now at least, with nothing but my whiskey.
I shouldn’t drink straight from the bottle, but there are a lot of things I’m currently doing that I shouldn’t be. Namely, fantasizing about walking up those stairs and continuing this fight with Summer. Only I don’t want to keep shouting at her. I never want to shout at her. I want to apologize for my words, the ones I said in the kitchen and the ones I can’t seem to get down on paper.
I would do it for her, I realize.
I will.
In the morning, by the time Summer comes downstairs wearing an oversized sweater and leggings with fuzzy socks and freshly showered hair, I’m already sitting at the kitchen table.
“Coffee just finished brewing.”
She looks over at the pot with raised brows. It’s true. I even put the kitten mug out for her to use.
“Get some and come sit down.”
“Going to pick up where we left off last night?” she asks with mild sarcasm. “Because I hate to break it to you, but I don’t have the energy this morning.”
“No.” I swallow, aware of my racing heart and the fact that I can only say this if my gaze is glued to the table. “I’d like to look over those notes you brought with you.”
Her head whips in my direction, and I glance up in time to witness unabashed hope light up her features. It’s gone too fast, replaced with skepticism.
“For ten minutes?” she asks drolly.
“No. We’ll work all morning. I need to do a few things this afternoon.”
She absorbs this with a slow, tentative nod before she walks over to get her coffee. When she’s filled up her mug and added a heaping amount of cream, she claims the seat across from me. Her booklet is still on the table where she left it yesterday.
“Before we begin, I’m sorry about last night,” she says, her eyes down on her mug.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I used some…colorful words.”
“Fuck?”
Her gaze whips up to me and she smiles.
“Ass?”
She groans and covers her face with her hand. “Did I say that as well? I forgot that part. I did have two glasses of wine with dinner—I’d like to put that on record.”
“Let the official record reflect Summer’s two glasses of wine,” I say, as if talking to a court stenographer just to my left.
She laughs, and I feast on it.
My tone turns somber as I continue, “Also, what you said about your family…I’m sorry you’re in that position.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’ll come around eventually, them and Andrew.”
“Andrew?”
She startles as if surprised. “Oh, he’s the guy I’ve been dating the last few years. Not consistently, but yeah.” She cringes. “I guess it’s complicated.”
“And you two are together now?” I’d like clarity on that.
“No. We’ve agreed to see other people, but I spoke to him yesterday. He’s still in my life.”
“Have you seen other people?”
“Like gone on dates?” The idea amuses her, as if that could never happen. “No.”