Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Still, I was proud of myself. I’d taken a chance, one with the potential to turn my life around. I’d been brave and bold, two words that didn’t usually apply to me.
Now I needed to think about whether I could really go through with this, on the off chance he actually said yes.
2
Bryson
I didn’t know what to think as I watched Embry leave the coffee house. Normally, if a stranger approached me like that, I would have walked away instead of hearing them out.
It probably helped that he was the least intimidating human being I’d ever seen. For one thing, he was tiny. Plus, he looked like a cartoon character with his big, blue eyes, curly white-blond hair that didn’t match his dark brows, and oversized pink hoodie, which had a picture of a unicorn farting a rainbow on it.
On the way out, he tripped over the perfectly flush threshold and squealed in alarm. I started to get up to go help him, but he managed to remain on his feet and made it through the door without further incident.
Yeah, definitely not intimidating.
I tried to imagine my uptight family’s reaction if I brought that guy and his hoodie home for Christmas, and a snort of laughter slipped from me. That made several people turn and stare at me—again. What an utterly humiliating day this had been.
I grabbed my coat and tossed my empty coffee cup on the way out. As soon as I stepped outside, a shiver ran through me. No wonder. I was sopping wet, and the breeze had picked up. I put on the coat and started walking at a quick pace.
It was barely six o’clock, but it was already dark. I hated that about winter. It made me want to go to bed and stay there. How the hell was it December already? There were colorful holiday decorations in almost every shop window, a constant reminder that I’d let this entire year get away from me.
I never should have gotten this close to the deadline without a plan in place. My grandfather was dead serious about it, too. When I’d approached him this past summer and asked for an extension, he’d turned me down flat and reminded me I’d had several years to make this happen.
I’d tried to tell him the idea that everyone needed to get married was outdated, and I was perfectly happy being single. I thought he’d get mad. Instead, he looked like he felt sorry for me. He’d said, “No you’re not, Bryson. You’re not happy at all. I’m not naïve enough to think finding yourself a wife will fix all your problems. But the forty-two years I had with your grandmother were the very best of my life, and I want you to experience what it’s like to have someone love you like that.”
It was a low blow to play the dead wife card. How could I argue with that? He’d also told me, “I don’t believe you’ll get out there and find someone on your own, which is why I felt the need to light this fire under your ass in the first place. And if you think I’m bluffing, make no mistake—if you don’t find someone and get married, you’re not getting a dime. Not now, and not when I die. I’ll make sure every penny goes to your brother and his spoiled kids.”
He honestly believed he was helping me, misguided as it was. And, of course, it was his money. He could do anything he wanted with it, including tying it up with unreasonable terms and conditions. Hell, he could leave his entire fortune to his neighbor’s parrot if he wanted to. It was totally his call.
I wished the money didn’t matter to me, but it was the only way I’d be able to try again with a new restaurant. So many people, including several family members, had told me the last one was going to fail. I needed to show them I could do this. The next one had to be a success.
I also needed to prove to myself there was one thing in the world I was actually good at. I’d worked so hard to learn my craft. I’d put absolutely everything on the back burner while I became the best chef I could possibly be, starting when I was still in high school. Instead of spending time with friends, or dating, or going to parties, I spent my evenings and weekends working as a dishwasher, a bus boy, a line cook—any job I could get, as long as it was in a restaurant.
Giving up on this dream would be like giving up on myself. There were a lot of days where I felt fully prepared to do that, but as long as a tiny glimmer of hope lived on somewhere deep inside me, I had to keep trying.