Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I don’t reply right away but then respond, “Yeah… sure, that sounds fun.”
Before taking another bite of his salad, he asks, “How come you never got into riding the way your sister did?”
From that point on, we don’t talk about Sylvie. We don’t talk about my asshole husband. Instead, we ask questions, laugh, and get to know each other.
Ethan Blackburn is not what I thought he was. It turns out—and perhaps the martinis play a role—he’s easy to talk to, funny at times and has layers upon layers. By the time our meal is finished, and he insists on paying, I feel like I’ve actually developed a solid friendship with him. He is no longer just an acquaintance or the parent of one of my students. I feel like I could call on Ethan Blackburn if I needed help with something, although I never would. It’s not in my nature to ask for help.
We walk out of the restaurant together and Ethan walks me to my little Volvo sedan. He stands back a few feet with his hands tucked into his jeans as I unlock the door and give a friendly wave goodbye as I slide into the driver’s seat.
“Drive safe,” he says.
“Thanks again for dinner,” I say.
“Thanks for keeping me company.”
And with that, he walks away, across the parking lot to his truck. That would have been the opportune time for him to ask me out on a date but he didn’t, which means he felt nothing during that meal other than perhaps the comfort of new friendship.
Oh well.
That’s fine by me.
As I’ve told my sister, I don’t have time to date anyway.
CHAPTER 13
Ethan
It’s four p.m. and I’ve broken my routine. Normally at this time of day, I am cloistered in my office working on the administrative duties required to run Blackburn Farms. I have a part-time secretary who does things like invoicing and scheduling, but it’s always at my direction, so my fingers are usually pounding on the laptop in my home office for an hour or so each day.
But today, that work will have to wait. Sylvie is at the kitchen table finishing up her homework and as I walk in, I hear her talking to Miranda.
“… three years old and one ear sticks straight up and the other flops forward,” Sylvie says.
“He sounds adorable,” Miranda replies, and as I turn the corner into the kitchen, I see Miranda working at the center island, seasoning the pork chops we’ll be eating for dinner. My parents are joining us tonight and my mom is bringing a board game for us all to play after. It’s just one of many ideas they’ve been accumulating that will allow Sylvie to spend family time with them in a fun, easy way. “I bet you miss him a lot.”
“Very much,” she replies as my gaze slides to her. She has her head bent over a workbook—math by the looks of it—and is managing her calculations while talking to Miranda. The girl is smart as a whip.
I decide to join the conversation. “Who do you miss?”
Sylvie’s head pops up and I’m relieved to see acceptance in her expression. Gone is her normal glare and disdain and she no longer closes herself off the way she used to. True to her word, she has been making an effort.
“My dog, Renault.”
I didn’t know she had a pet she’d left behind in France. Just one more loss she was dealing with. I have no clue what it would take to get her dog shipped here but I make a mental note to look into it. “Renault… as in the car manufacturer?”
“Renault as in the Formula 1 race team,” Sylvie replies and my jaw drops. “Although now they’re called Alpine.”
“You watch Formula 1 racing?” I’m practically agog because it is such a niche sport and she’s only nine. Aren’t girls her age into dolls and stuff?
“Maman did. She dated a man for a while who used to race so she was into it. Renault was her favorite team.”
I am fascinated. I walk over to the cabinet that holds thermal cups and pour myself a coffee from the pot Miranda always keeps fresh. My caffeine addiction is real. After pressing a lid onto my cup, I turn to face Sylvie, intensely curious about this new fact I’ve learned. “Did you ever go to any races?”
Sylvie nods, tapping the eraser of her pencil on the workbook. “He took us to a Grand Prix in Monaco and Monza. It was really loud.”
I have a million questions, but each one may sound like I’m curious about Alaine and her racing boyfriend and I don’t have any genuine curiosities about that.
Except one.
And I’m hesitant to ask it but it bears directly on what type of father figures Sylvie has had over her life.