Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
She nods in understanding, and I slink away.
Outside, I watch cars zip up and down Ocean Blvd. Santa Monica is still teeming with activity at midnight. A gust of wind blows my hair back, not quite standing on end since it’s longer but it reminds me of the time in the Jeep. The Santa Anas. Reagan. His smiling face assails me.
What nobody tells you is that heartbreak is not a one-and-done deal. It happens in small, slow increments every day. A hairline fracture that compounds, branches until it becomes a map of all the pain you’ve endured. Until there’s nothing left of your heart other than a few sharp pieces you can’t keep together.
I hand the valet the ticket to the Jeep and wrap my arms around myself. He smiles before running off. I’m chilled, goose bumps breaking out on my arms even though it’s in the eighties. I’m always chilled these days.
A cab pulls up to the hotel entrance and the doorman quickens his pace to open the door for whomever’s in the back.
A large male hand curls around the roof of the taxi. One long leg ease out. A sharp, midnight blue suit emerges. Standing a solid six feet plus, he straightens, squares his broad shoulders, and tips his chin at the doorman.
That’s when I’m certain I still have a heart because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be experiencing an explosion of pain in the middle of my chest.
Hair longer, messy, streaked in gold. Scruff covering the bottom of his face. Eyes glowing in contrast to his tan. He really needs to learn how to use sunscreen.
“Reagan.” My voice is a broken whisper, my chest burning with all the unspoken sentiments I’ve kept to myself in his absence.
His head snaps up and his gaze finds me standing a few feet away. Shock registers on his face as obviously as it’s on mine.
The Jeep pulls up. The valet jumps out, walks over, and hands me the keys. Absently, I take them. I can’t even acknowledge him because I’m lost in bottomless green eyes, no less stunning than the first time I saw them.
“Yo, sir?” the cab driver calls out.
Snapping out of his trance, Reagan grabs his duffel bag and shuts the door. The cab takes off, and its just the two of us and the ghost of our past.
His face softens as his gaze traces each and every one of my features. He runs a hand though his hair and exhales loudly, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched tightly.
“I was hoping you were still here.” His voice falters. When I don’t respond, concern fills his eyes. “Alice?”
I nod. It’s all I can do. With so much emotion clogging my throat it feels like I’m going into anaphylactic shock, everything closing up.
“Can we talk?” he asks softly, taking two very tentative steps closer. “I know I’m asking a lot but I…I have a lot I need to tell you, to explain.”
As tempted as I am to put him out of his misery, I can’t. I’ve spent months in hell, wondering where he was, if he was happy and healthy. Who he was with. As much as I love him, I need to start thinking of myself.
“Can we?” he repeats.
I nod. “Zoe…” I start, motioning to the door. “She has a room here. We can use it.” It feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’ve wanted this for so long and now that he’s here I feel unprepared to handle it.
He takes another step closer and I turn for the front door of the hotel. I’m not strong enough to fend him off. If he touches me, I’ll surrender faster than you can spell no self-respect. On the way, I hand the valet the keys again.
Back inside the party room, I push through the drunken masses and find Zoe who’s jumping up and down on the dance floor and bumping hips with Blake and Dora.
Her eyes widen when she sees me. “You’re baaaack. Al!! Don’t leave us. C’mon dance.”
I pull her face closer, bring her ear to my mouth. “Don’t repeat it out loud, but Reagan’s here. Can I use your room?”
Her mood sobers at once. She stops dancing. Her eyes narrow into two vicious slits. Leaning in, she says, “You better make that motherfucker pay.”
“First, I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“Okay. I’ll make that motherfucker pay.”
I send her a warning glare. “Zoe…”
“Fine, ugh, you’re no fun. Room 1814.” She hands me the key card out of the micro Celine purse and when I turn to leave she stops me. Her usually jaded eyes soften and her flawless features pinch in concern.
“I know,” I tell her before she can get a word out. She’s a good one. As loyal as they come. All that ferocious confidence put to good use in my defense. “I’ll be fine.”