Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
“Once I found the pictures, I couldn’t help myself.” She smiled down at the open photo album on her lap as I took the boxes of takeout from the bag.
“No tomato,” I said, handing hers over. I couldn’t remember if my last girlfriend liked her coffee sweet or black, yet here I was, committing everything about Georgia Stanton to memory without even trying. I had it bad.
“Thank you,” she replied with a smile, taking the box before pointing up to the desk behind us. “Iced tea, unsweetened.”
“Thanks.” Guess I wasn’t the only one committing the details to memory.
“I still think you’re a weirdo for drinking it without sugar, but whatever floats your boat.” She shrugged and flipped a page in the album.
“That you?” I brushed off her commentary and leaned over her shoulder slightly. Whether it was her shampoo or perfume, the light citrus scent I breathed in went straight to my head, along with other body parts I needed under firm control around Georgia.
“How can you tell?” She shot me a quizzical look. “You can’t even see my face.”
“I recognize Scarlett, and I highly doubt there was any other little girl dressed up as a princess Darth Vader.” Scarlett’s smile was proud, just like it was in every picture I saw of her and Georgia together.
“Fair point,” Georgia admitted. “Guess I was feeling a little dark side that year.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.” Her brow furrowed. “Mom had come to visit before marrying husband number two, if I remember correctly.”
“How many husbands has she had?” It wasn’t that I was judging, as much as the look on Georgia’s face had me more than curious.
“Five marriages, four husbands.” She flipped the page. “She married number three twice, but I think they’re getting divorced, since she’s currently back with number four. I honestly don’t bother keeping track anymore.”
It took a second to connect those dots.
“Anyway, you need the pictures from the forties, and these are mostly just me—” She moved to shut the album.
“I’d love to see them.” Anything to help me understand her better.
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
“I mean, Scarlett’s in them, too, right?” Weak.
“True. Okay. We can move to the older stuff next. Don’t let it get cold.” She motioned to the burger I had in front of me.
We ate and flipped through the album. Page after page was filled with pictures of Georgia’s childhood, and though some of the pictures included Hazel or Scarlett, it was years—and my entire lunch—before Ava appeared again. Georgia looked like a happy child for the most part—huge smiles in the garden, the meadow, out by the creek. Book signings in Paris and Rome—
“No London?” I asked, turning the page back to make sure I hadn’t missed one. Nope, just Scarlett and Georgia—who was missing two front teeth—at the Colosseum.
“She never stepped foot in England again,” Georgia said softly. “This was the last book tour, too. She wrote for another ten years, though. Swore it kept her from going senile. What about you?”
“Me? Am I at risk for going senile?” My eyebrows shot up. “How old do you think I am?”
She laughed. “I know you’re thirty-one. I meant, do you think you’ll write until you’re ninety?” she rephrased, elbowing me gently.
“Oh.” I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to imagine a time I wouldn’t write. “I’ll probably write until I’m dead. Whether I choose to publish it or not is a different subject.” Writing a book and going through the publishing process were two completely different beasts.
“I get that.” As someone raised in the industry, she undoubtedly did.
Another page, another picture, another year. Georgia’s smile was blindingly bright as she stood in front of a birthday cake—twelve, going by the decorations—with Ava at her side.
In the next picture, which looked to be a few weeks later, the light was gone from Georgia’s eyes.
“You’re not going to ask why my mother didn’t raise me?” She peered at me sideways.
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” she asked softly.
“I do.” I knew enough of the bare bones to piece it together. Ava had become a mother in high school, but she wasn’t cut out for being a mom. “Contrary to what experience you have with me because of our project here, I’m not in the habit of prying information out of women who don’t want to give it.” I studied the lines of her face as she looked anywhere but at me.
“Even if it helped you understand Gran?” She flipped the album page carelessly, as if the answer was inconsequential, but I knew better.
“I promise I’ll never take anything you don’t wholeheartedly want to give me, Georgia.” My voice dropped.
She turned my way and our eyes met, our faces only a breath apart. Had she been any other woman, I would have kissed her. I would’ve acted on the blatant attraction that had grown way past any analogy I could’ve mustered. This was no longer a simple zing of electricity, and it had developed far beyond a shot of lust or a surge of overwhelming desire. The inches between us were thick with need, pure and primal. It was no longer a matter of if, but when. I saw the battle raging in her eyes that felt all-too-familiar, because I waged the same war against inevitability.