Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Ladybug.
Our mother was always about bees and Ros loved ladybugs.
Me, I have a small blue butterfly tattoo on my ankle, just as small as that little red dot on Ros’ hip. The ink is just as weathered since we’d gotten them together that day, holding hands and trying not to flinch as the needles marked our flesh, giggling in that goofy way only sisters can when something crazy goes down.
And she normally wears her blonde hair in a sensible bun while she’s working, but now it’s blown out, falling down her shoulders and chest, framing a face I struggle to recognize.
She’s made up with sultry fuck-me red lipstick, glossy vixen red nails, and a solid smoky eyeshadow, though I don’t think all of the darkness around her eyes is makeup.
Some of it seems almost sunken. Bruised.
These hollows match the dips in her too-thin cheeks.
Yikes.
Now, I see why Grant thought something was up.
It’s not the new look. Not at all.
If Ros just decided on a whim that she wanted a punky makeover to come out of her shell as a flirty, sexy girl, that wouldn’t be a red flag of the apocalypse.
No, it’s the way her pupils jitter as she looks up from wiping down the counter and her gaze lands on me.
It’s the haunted nervousness in her eyes.
The way her fingers look almost like claws as they grasp the paper towel.
Plus, the syrupy falseness in her smile as she brightens, watching me with a mix of delight and wariness.
“Ophelia!” she cries like she’s just completely forgotten I was in town.
Only it comes out strange, thick and slurred, like her tongue is swollen and a little numb.
I’m definitely a little numb as she comes flitting around the counter, moving with this wild energy that can’t be Ros, and pulls me into her arms.
She buries her face against my shoulder, hugging me so tight it hurts.
“It’s awesome to see you,” she says. “We missed you so much...”
“So much that you haven’t come home for an hour since I’ve been in town?” I ask, unable to help the sharpness in my tone.
Ros pulls back with a pout. “Not fair. I’ve been busy as hell keeping the lights on here.”
“So busy you can’t even come home to sleep?”
With an offended gasp, Ros fully lets go, stepping back defensively.
“Hi, Ophelia. Welcome home, Ophelia. It’s good to see you too, Ophelia. I missed you, Ophie.” She clucks her tongue. “God. And here I thought maybe we could start there instead of you bitching me out.” She scowls. “You’ve been gone for ten years. You don’t get to show up and start acting like the big sister out of nowhere.”
Brutal.
A beeswax candle to the eye would’ve hurt less.
Guilt knifes through me, but it’s not enough to dampen my rising temper.
“Look, Ros... I’m not trying to be the big sister and chew you out. I’m not here to assert authority or whatever you’re thinking. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with you. Our mom is sick. This might be the last time we get to spend with her, and—when was the last time you even went to see her?
She looks away, her eyes going dark with irritation.
“Ros, don’t lie to me. The staff said I was the only visitor all week.”
Whirling around, Ros glares, her green eyes glassy and glazed with hurt.
“Don’t you lecture me! You think I want to see her like that? You think I’m not hurting? Jesus, Ophelia. I can’t look at her like that when that’s... that’s not Mom in that bed.” She pauses, chewing her lip before she continues. “That’s a memory. A memory I don’t want after she’s gone. You think she’d want us to remember her like that? No. No, I’m doing the next best thing. I’m protecting her legacy. I’m taking care of the shop because she wouldn’t want it closing down just because she’s too sick to work. What do you know about any of that?”
My lips thin. I stare at her, trying to soften the blow.
“I know about Aleksander,” I say point-blank. “Is he one of your distractions, too? Does shacking up with one of the nastiest playboys in town make it easier—all so you don’t have to think about Mom?”
Ros’ eyes bug out and she sucks in a harsh breath.
“How’d you—” She groans. “Grant. Oh my God, that snake.”
“He only told me because he’s worried. Just like I am,” I retort. “Honestly, I don’t blame him one bit. Ros, what kind of lifestyle does Aleksander Arrendell want you to share? Look at you...”
“At what?” She props her hands on her hips, throwing a snapping look at me. “What’re you saying? That I look like a whore? Just because I’m enjoying myself for once and finding something to be happy about?”
“You look sick,” I point out softly. “You don’t look well. That’s what I was going to say.”