Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“Watch it,” she mutters, though she’s smiling. “Look, there’s a spot next to Polly.”
“Hello, darling!” Polly’s greeting is as enthusiastic as her hug. “Sorry about this.” She points at the woman on the stepladder who seems to be reciting a poem. “She’s a terrible poet,” Polly adds with a laugh. “But it won’t be much longer.”
“She’s attracted quite a crowd,” Mom says with a weird gleam.
I half turn my head over my shoulder when Polly pipes up, “Oh, look! The man of the hour.”
I press my hand over my heart, my fingers lying over the ICD. I want to turn, to walk away. To run, in fact, but I can’t get my feet to coordinate. My heart and my head are at war at the sight of Leif Whittington. His lips quirk, the looks he sends his mother abashed. His gaze slides over my parents before reaching me. Through these treacherous tears, I still see his expression soften. He smiles; it’s a small, tentative thing but still causes an ache to creep up my throat. When he presses his index finger to the sharp divot above his top lip, my stomach tightens, becoming a mess of tangled nerves and knots.
Whit holds out his hand to help the woman in sensible tweed step down from the ladder, then he takes a step on it. And another. Then the third so he’s towering above a not-so-insubstantial crowd. He throws his arms out and announces quite happily,
“I am an arsehole!”
“Nah!” comes a heckling retort from the back of the crowd. “An arsehole is useful at least once a day.”
“Oh my Lord!” My mother chuckles, pressing her hand to her mouth.
“I am an arsehole,” he repeats, “a poem by Leif Whittington.” He takes a breath. “I am an arsehole because I couldn’t see the love of a good woman, though it was parked on the end of my nose.”
“Steady on, pervert!” yells someone else who sounds suspiciously like Primrose. Not that Whit is paying any attention because his eyes are only for me.
“There’s this girl I knew, knock-kneed and pigtailed but so sweet. Her brother asked me to look after her, but I didn’t do it well. So when she turned up on my doorstep, I thought I’d go to hell.”
“Shakespeare’s rolling in his grave!” yells a voice I don’t recognize.
“Shut it. Let him speak.” That one sounded like Brin.
“But I couldn’t help myself,” Whit adds with a theatrical shrug. “She was the most beautiful thing that I’d ever seen. Though her beauty was the least of her because her heart is generous and her laughter fair, and please don’t get me started on her golden hair.”
“Oh, honey.” My mom’s eyes are full as she turns to me.
“The worst of it is, she doesn’t see herself as others do. But what good people in the world do?” He takes a deep breath as though about to shout, yet his next words leave his mouth so softly. “I really don’t care about matters of maternity because, Amelia Valente, you are the torrid love affair I want to be part of for eternity.”
“Shittiest poem ever!” shouts a warbly teenage voice, but I don’t care because my love is in front of me. His hands are on my shoulders, and his smile is hesitant.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes bleeding love. “But if you give me a chance, I will love you as hard—”
“And as often!”
Whit frowns over my head, his gaze ultimately sliding softly back. “I will love you as hard as you can stand it for the rest of my life. What do you say, little fly?”
Tipping up onto my toes, I press my hand to his cheek and my lips to his ear. “Don’t give up your day job, Daddy,” I whisper. And then I kiss him.
EPILOGUE
WHIT
“…happy birthday, dear Wh-it—”
“The poet wan-ker!” Brin and El sing.
I frown their way but don’t lose my stride as chief birthday singer. “Happy birthday to you! Hip hip!”
“Hooray!”
“Hip hip!”
“Hooray!”
“Blow out your candles,” I insist, clapping my hands like a seal.
“This is a fire hazard,” Whit grumbles, but he does as I ask, blowing out the at least sixty candles on his birthday cake. This is what happens when you leave someone else to light them. Someone like Brin. “I’m cutting you all off,” he adds as we all cheer. “Except you.” His hand hooks around my waist, pulling me to him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Between my legs gives a little pulse at the way he looks at me the moment before he pulls me close.
“When can we send them all home?” His words are a hot whisper against my neck.
“Not for a while,” I trill, pulling away.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbles as he catches El showing his date for the night his phone.