Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Did you two know her ex?” I ask, snagging a question from my racing thoughts as I study the jewelry before me. There’s an eclectic collection of vintage pieces plucked straight out of dusty antique shops and brought here to be resold.
There are rings with unique gemstones like alexandrite and color-changing garnets, and bracelets that could coil around Blakely’s arm with gold and silver, or necklaces with Victorian-looking lockets encrusted with sapphires, and pens and brooches and everything in between.
“Yeah, I met him several times,” Pax says, and he doesn't try to hide the disdain in his voice. “He'd meet up with us sometimes when we were all together as a group—”
“You mean a group including you and your not-girlfriend who also happens to be our physical therapist?” Nash cuts him off, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Yep, that about sums it up,” Pax fires back, rolling his eyes before focusing on me again. “I never liked the guy, and I told Monroe as much. She agreed with me, but Blakely was already in too deep. I never realized how bad it was until she finally came out and told us. I always knew he was a douchebag, I just didn't realize he was worse behind closed doors. He was such a prick. Always answering for her or saying she couldn't do something.”
I nod, because that much is on track with what I’ve seen and what Blakely has told me.
Again, this very recent and tumultuous past could be exactly the reason she hasn't fully opened up to me yet. And it’s selfish and downright juvenile of me to feel hurt over that fact. All I can do is keep proving to her with my actions that I’m somebody she can trust with her secrets.
That knowledge reinvigorates me with extra motivation, and I continue to scan the store with my friends in tow.
“Has that problem settled down?” Nash asks, clearly referring to the way her ex had been badgering her.
“I think he’s starting to get the hint,” I say, stopping in front of a wall of shelves containing porcelain teacups and teapots that look straight out of the Victorian era. “The texting has gone down, but after everything, I'm not sure what’s going to be the final straw for this guy.”
I pick up a delicate teapot with blue and pink flowers painted all over it, the pattern looking incredibly similar to one I saw on the latest episode of Bridgerton we watched together.
I examine the thing a little closer, finding a made in England stamp on the bottom that makes me smile. My girl is obsessed with that show, and this will be a little piece of it for her world.
I clutch the thing to my chest, not wanting to break the delicate porcelain, and move on to the next section of the store.
“If you ever need any help with that,” Nash says. “Need backup to intimidate the asshole, you can always ask us, you know that right?”
“Aww,” I exaggerate the word and use my free hand to reach out to him, placing my hand on his shoulder and batting my eyes at him. “Did we just become best friends?”
Nash shakes his head. “Don't make me regret it,” he says.
Pax holds up an ancient-looking book, The Art of Afternoon Tea scribbled across the spine in gold lettering. “This will go great with that teapot,” he says before using his free hand to wave enthusiastically to someone behind us.
Nash and I turn around, my hand still on his shoulder, the motion making me practically wrap my arm around the dude, a teapot clutched lovingly in my other arm, and our motherfucking captain staring at us like we’re aliens from another planet.
I quickly drop my arm from Nash, surveying the scene and trying not to laugh.
“We were just—"
“I don't care,” Kiplin cuts me off, shaking his head at the three of us.
“Uncle Clay, these are perfect!” a young girl says as she runs from the front of the store, jumping up and down while she holds a pair of baby-blue gloves.
Clay looks down at the girl—who has dark black hair secured in two braided pigtails, and can’t be more than five years old—and surprisingly doesn’t drop the scowl off his face. “Are those the ones you want?” he asks, his voice just a hint softer than normal.
“Yes, please!” The girl stares up at him with the biggest grin on her face, like she doesn’t see the scary-as-shit-looking giant but just a big cuddly teddy bear.
“All right, then,” Clay says, waving her toward the counter.
I grab the book from Pax, thanking him before heading to the register myself. “Who is this?” I ask, waving down to the excited girl at Clay’s side.
“I’m Jessica,” the girl says. “His niece,” at the same time Clay says, “None of your business,” in a gruff tone that matches the near perma-scowl on his face.