Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Been there,” Moretti said.
“Done that.” Griffin nodded.
“So how do you get over feeling like you might actually have a heart attack and die if you say the words you’re thinking?” I asked them. “How do you force yourself to get outside your head?”
“You finally realize that the alternative is worse,” Cole said. “Living without her—and it’s your own damn fault.”
I frowned. “I just wish I had more time.”
“Did you not just say you’ve waited fifteen fucking years?” Griffin asked.
“Dude.” Moretti clapped me on the back. “Admit it—we’re right.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. “I can’t think about this right now. I need to get this pink polish off my finger.”
“Cheyenne could probably help,” Cole suggested. “I can’t see her, but you can go upstairs.”
“I’ll be back,” I said, leaving them at the table.
Guests were starting to arrive, and I had to swim upstream through dozens of them making their way through the house to the yard. After taking the stairs up two at a time, I knocked on the only bedroom door that was closed, behind which I heard feminine laughter.
Mariah pulled it open. “Uncle Beckett! You’re not supposed to be up here.”
“I know, sorry.”
She ducked down and peeked around my side. “Is Daddy with you?”
“No, I’m alone.” I had to smile. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She stood tall again, her grin joyful and proud. Her dress was long, floaty, and peach-colored, and her dark hair was tied back in a braid on the top, the rest loose around her shoulders. She wore lip gloss, a tiny diamond necklace, and some kind of glittery lotion that made her skin shimmer a little. “It’s not time for us to come down yet, is it?”
“I don’t think so.” Over her shoulder, I heard Maddie’s voice, and I looked into the room. She sat on a bench at the foot of the king-sized bed, looking at Cheyenne, who stood in front of a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. Bianca and Blair were on either side of her, fussing the way women did over brides—fluffing her dress, adjusting her veil, arranging her hair just so.
Cheyenne caught my eyes in the mirror. “Beckett! What are you doing up here? Is it time?”
I shook my head. “Not quite yet.”
She looked slightly relieved. “Good. I still feel like I need to catch my breath a minute. You can come in if you’d like.”
Hesitantly, I stepped into the room, barely flicking my eyes toward Maddie. I was afraid if I really looked at her like I had at home, I’d fall to my knees and beg her to let me try again. And I couldn’t be weak. I had to stay strong.
“What can I do for you?” Cheyenne asked, turning to face me. “You look very handsome, by the way.”
“Thank you. You look beautiful. Between you and Mariah, we’re going to have to mop Cole off the ground.”
She smiled. “Thank you. So what’s up?”
“Uh, I have a little problem.” I held up my hand.
Her eyes widened, and she laughed. “Oh my. That’s quite the manicure.”
Maddie jumped up off the bench and came to look. “Oh no! Did I miss one?”
“Just one,” I said. “It’s okay. I didn’t even notice until the guys told me a minute ago.”
Mariah, Blair, and Bianca came over to peek at my hand too, and they all began to laugh.
“I kind of like it,” Bianca said. “I think it’s cool when a man is so secure he can paint his nails pink.”
“I do too,” agreed Blair.
“There’s a kid at my school who paints his nails,” offered Mariah. “Usually it’s colors like black or blue, but nobody even makes fun of him for it.”
“Well, that’s good, and normally I might not care, but I think for today I’d better get it off.”
“Cheyenne, do you have any remover?” Maddie asked.
“In the bathroom.” Cheyenne gestured toward the master bath. “Under the sink. I have a whole crate of nail stuff.”
“I’ll grab it,” Maddie said.
“I can get it.” I followed her to the bathroom, but she made it there first and bent down at the sink. Pulling out the crate, she set it on the vanity and took out a plastic bottle of yellow liquid. Unscrewing the black cap, she set it aside and reached for a cotton ball from a jar full of them. She wet it and said, “Give me your hand.”
I held it out, and she went to work removing the pink. The chemical acetone scent stung my nostrils. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She kept her eyes on her work and when she was done, she nodded. “There. No more pink.”
I looked at my bare fingernail and nodded, then let my hand drop. “I appreciate it.”
She busied herself tossing out the soiled cotton, screwing the cap back on the bottle, tucking the crate back beneath the sink. But she never once looked me in the eye.