Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Since. Fucking. When.
Since now apparently.
I have this urge to privately explain that it’s not him in this particular instance, it’s me.
“Violet asked if you were feeling okay,” Tate says softly. “You’ve barely touched dinner.”
Everyone’s eyes are on me. Sweat beads form behind my mask, making the ugly skin crawl. I want to rip it off and claw at my flesh. Even with a fucking mask, it’s like they see more than I ever care to share.
“Sorry,” I grumble, unable to look at Violet. “I’m just tired.”
Violet gets up from her seat, flits over to me, and presses the back of her hand to my neck. “You’re a bit clammy but not feverish. Maybe you should go lie down, hon.”
Guilt swells over me and drags me under, drowning me without remorse. I have people who care about me, like Violet, and I always let them down. Just like Mom.
“I’m fine,” I bark out, voice defensive and sharp. “I’ll eat. Carry on, please.”
Violet slowly withdraws her hand and shuffles away to take her seat again. Uncomfortable silence fills the dining room. No one speaks or clangs a spoon on their bowl. It’s completely quiet.
Finally, Grandpa says, “Well, enough of your pity party, Jude. You’re embarrassing me in front of my friend.”
I snap my gaze up to meet my grandpa’s. It shines with amusement and challenge. A snort echoes from Tate next. Then the three of them start cracking up laughing. I feel my own lips that were pressed into a hard line curl with amusement.
“You barely know Tate,” I mutter. “How is he already your friend?”
“I’m old,” Grandpa says jovially. “Time moves faster at my age. No time to slowly let people in. I’m a good judge of character. Tate’s good people in my book. Plus, an old geezer like me can’t exactly afford the luxury of wasting time to vet new people out.”
Tate shrugs when I meet his gaze. His eyes glitter and his smile remains. He’s enjoying the banter and conversation. This, in turn, has me relaxing more.
I finally lift my mask just enough to reveal my mouth and continue eating my stew, which seems to be the catalyst for getting the three of them to hop back into their easy chatter. Thankfully, no one watches me while I eat or stares at the small part of my exposed face. When we finally finish, Violet whisks the three of us out of the dining room, refusing to let us clean up, and says she’ll bring our dessert to the library in a bit.
Grandpa stops at his room for his home health nurse to assist him with a bathroom break and to give him his meds, which leaves me and Tate in the library. Alone.
Tate walks over to one of the bookshelves and takes a book from its place. He flips through it briefly, nods, and then makes his way back over to me.
“This is the book we talked about.” He lifts his chin, eyes boring into mine. “Is there a reason why you pretend rather than actually reading?”
“I’m not dyslexic or anything.”
“And if you were? Who cares? Why do you pretend?”
I shake my head in frustration. He’s too intuitive. Latches onto the smallest of words to pick them apart.
“If I want to read, I’ll do it before bed in the comfort of my own room,” I say to him with a huff. “Spending time with Grandpa feels like a dwindling gift. I’d rather just watch him.”
Put that way, I sound like a stalker creep.
Tate pats my chest and then hands me the book. “You’re not always terrifying, are you?”
I take the book, my hand brushing over his, and relish in the zinging jolts that rush through my body. He doesn’t appear to be as affected as I am because he turns and walks away. My muscles are frozen stiff. Hell, they’re not the only thing that’s stiff…
Tate settles on the sofa by a lamp, dragging a blanket over his lap. He then starts reading his book while I continue to stare it him, wishing for my dick to calm the fuck down.
After a few minutes, I snap out of it and take a seat in an armchair near the windows where I can observe him without being so obvious. Not long after, Grandpa arrives, his telltale whining wheelchair announcing his arrival. Violet comes in behind him with a tray filled with dessert and coffee mugs.
Grandpa maneuvers his wheelchair to his spot near the end table lamp on the other side of where Tate sits. This pleases me because I can look over the top of my book and watch them both.
“I made Wyatt’s favorite,” Violet says as she sets down the tray to begin passing out the dessert. “Blackberry cobbler a la mode.”
Tate’s eyes widen and he shoots me a small, private smile. Ice cream. I told him this house was the best. Pride, over something as stupid as ice cream, surges through me. Who needs heated floors?