Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“Why?”
“Because I’m special.”
And not in a good way, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Something moves on his face at my words.
I can’t tell what, but it washes over his features, making those tight high lines loose and slightly pliable. “And what’s so special about you?”
“The fact that I’m an enigma.” I shrug, chuckling at my own self-deprecating humor. “A total mystery. I’m super weird and super different from everyone else in this town. People call me strange. Bronwyn Littleton, the strange one.” I put a hand on my chest. “That’s my name by the way. Bronwyn.” Then, “But you should totally call me Wyn.”
Because no one ever does.
Everyone always calls me by my full name: Bronwyn. And honestly, she sounds like a total disappointment.
Not Wyn though.
I think Wyn is cute and pretty and an ideal daughter and all the things Bronwyn isn’t. So I want him to call me that.
I also want him to tell me his name now.
I mean it’s only polite, right?
But all he does is take a sharp breath, his forehead bunching up in a frown. “Is that why you’re out here?”
“What?”
“Someone say something to you?” he asks in a low voice. “Did someone call you weird or some crap like that?”
I blink at him.
Then I blink again because for a moment, I don’t understand his tone. I don’t understand the tightness that has come over his frame and the fact that his frown has become even thicker if possible.
But then I get it.
I get what’s happening and why and… and I’m just so floored right now.
That I can’t help but take another step, two steps in fact, toward him. Which he by default responds to by taking a large step back.
And this time instead of making me smile, it makes me swallow a large lump of emotions.
Because he’s just so… good.
And responsible.
For not only keeping an appropriate distance between us but also for getting angry on my behalf.
That’s what it is, isn’t it?
His change in tone and demeanor is because he’s upset over what I so carelessly said. I was just making a joke.
Shaking my head, I say, “It’s nothing. No one said anything. I just… I came here to get away from stuff for a little bit. And this place is extremely safe. Very low crime rate. And I’d know that because my dad, Jack Littleton, is the DA. You see this? This golf course?” I wave my hand around. “My dad comes here every Saturday to play with his buddies. So I know this area. Trust me. Everything is fine. Even if it’s eleven fifteen at night and way past my curfew, which I don’t have. So I am fine. Thanks though.” I swallow again because that lump of emotion has only grown bigger. “I really appreciate it.”
My last words are thin and fragile.
They barely come out of my mouth and make a dent in the world. Because I have this large weight sitting in my chest. This crushing weight, which comes from the knowledge that I should probably get back now.
I should probably be brave and go back to face my parents.
To face Robbie.
And this meeting — that has been so wonderful and enchanting so far — is going to be over.
“So what is it?”
I look up at his voice. “What?”
He’s watching me with a dipped chin and grave eyes. “The stuff that you’re trying to get away from.”
Again I blink at him because again, I’m unable to understand what he’s saying. Until I do understand it and my eyes widen. “Are you… You want to know the stuff I’m trying to get away from?”
“And I’m guessing that’s another thing that people in your town don’t do,” he concludes.
“No, they don’t,” I say in a high, surprised voice. “I mean they do go, ‘hey, how are you’ or ‘how was your weekend’ or ‘are you okay?’ But I don’t think they really mean it. Maybe it’s just the thing that rich and polite people do. Ask things they don’t mean.”
Maybe.
I’m not really sure.
All I know is that no one has ever asked me if I’m okay and wanted an honest answer to that.
He shrugs then, a lazy roll of his massive shoulders. “Well, good for you then. That I’m not rich or polite or from this town.”
“I knew it.” I jump up in my spot. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t from this town. I was right.”
He, my Mystery Man, watches me with what I can only assume is a cool, bored expression, his eyes going down to my bare feet — the first thing I did when I sat down was to take off my heels and push them aside — for a second before coming back up to my beaming face.
How he manages to keep his features blank in the face of my utter happiness at being right is something I’ll never understand. But he does. “Now that we’ve established and celebrated the fact that I’m not from here, are you going to talk about it?”