Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Which is just as well, I tell myself again and again, because it saves me from the embarrassment of apologising. From locking myself in my bedroom. From pointing out that heavy petting on the couch—hell, any surface—can’t happen again.
“Are you sexin’ without the serious?”
Beth’s questioning tone captures my attention. “Sorry, what?”
“You and him, are you friends with benefits?”
We’re not even friends.
“Since when has my sex life become a topic for discussion?”
“At least you have one.” She waggles her eyebrows comically. “Did you not just hear me say I’m this close to having sex with my older yet slightly creepy boss?” She holds her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“You won’t do it,” Marta mutters without lifting her head. “You can’t even swallow a raisin. You’ll never survive an old penis.”
I chuckle, though press my hand to my mouth.
“Shows what you know.” Beth hooks her arm over the back of the chair to slide Marta an eloquent look. “You know, I haven’t had sex for so long that I actually moaned when my massage therapist laid his hands on me during my appointment last week. Moaned! Like I was enjoying it way too much.” My chuckle turns to a snorting laugh. “Go ahead, yuck it up, but I’m serious. My dry spell is beginning to resemble the damn Sahara.”
My laughter morphs to something that sounds much less pleasant as I begin to fire up my computer. “I bet your dry spell hasn’t lasted five years.”
Oh, hell. The words fall from my mouth without a thought, the office immediately falling deathly silent. Beth freezes, and Marta’s keyboard tapping halts. Even the traffic outside seems to stop.
With a groan, I plant my head on my desk. “Please, please, please forget I ever said that.”
“What the hell?” I’m not sure if it’s shock or awe I can hear in Beth’s voice. “You’re gorgeous. Young. Single. Totally hot!” With each word, she ticks off the points against her fingers, sounding a little more hysterical on my behalf. “You lived in France, the home of l’amour! French kissing, French letters—French men!”
“I have a child,” I answer with a tight shrug.
“So do over half the childbearing-aged women in the US! If you can’t find a man, what chance do I have?”
“I’m not looking for a man.” I keep my gaze resolutely on my screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. I already found—scratch that thought. Five years without a spark of interest in anyone until now. How can that even be? “What I need is an apartment,” I say, forcing my mind from the topic of Carson Hayes.
“Girl, you need both. But I can only help you with an apartment.”
“I was actually going to ask if you knew a decent realtor.” Not one determined to waste Rose’s money.
“I can probably do better than that. “My sister has a place over on 107th Street, between Amsterdam and Broadway she’s looking to let.”
“Why didn’t you say so,” Marta gripes.
“I didn’t think she was serious,” she throws over her shoulder before turning back to me. “Why would anyone want to leave a view of the park?”
“Because it’s just a stopgap.” I wave away her question. “But your sister’s place?”
“It could be kinda perfect. She’s moving in with her boyfriend but doesn’t want a long-term lease or move all of her belongings. You know, just in case.”
“Of course.” I find myself nodding, my insides a strange mixture of excitement and dread.
“I’ll call her now.” She stands and makes her way over to her own desk. “See when’s good for you to have a look around.”
“Great! Beth, I don’t know what to say, except thank you. I so appreciate your help.”
“No problem.” Phone in hand, she angles her gaze my way. I can’t exactly make out her expression as she adds, “One good turn deserves another, though, right?”
“Of course,” I reply without thinking. I have to do this. I have to move on. I can’t carry on living where I am. Because I can’t get Carson Hayes out of my head.
13
Carson
Glasses chink, the hum of conversations and laughter mingling with the sultry sounds of a band playing somewhere. I pause on the threshold of the ballroom as I cast my gaze around the room, gowns of a dozen colours and a hundred more hues make the ballroom looks like a meadow filled with summer blooms. And penguins, oddly enough, courtesy of the usual dress code for these kinds of events. Black tie. Though tonight I’ve shaken things up a little myself by wearing a white dinner jacket over black everything else. It’s quite a dapper look, or so my tailor tells me.
My heart sinks, and I ask myself once more what I’m doing here. There are so many more pleasant places to be. Like in my apartment making myself at home between a certain woman’s legs. But the reason I’m currently standing in The Drake Hotel in Chicago and not in my apartment in Manhattan is the same as always. Penance. The sins of the father might not be visited upon his descendants, yet I’m compelled to atone for my grandfather’s misdeeds.