Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Family.
A slow, bittersweet smile crinkles my face.
That’s what matters most to him, even if he doesn’t come out and say it.
My eyes sting.
“Thank you,” I whisper, blinking back the tears—because crying now over this is the last thing we need. “Thanks for being honest.”
“You shouldn’t have to thank me for that, Sweet Stuff.” He tips my chin up and meets my gaze. “I’m always honest with you,” he whispers raggedly.
Then he kisses me deeply and doesn’t stop.
Catness head-butts my ankles, purring as we kiss like we’ve lost our minds in his library.
The evening sunlight spins across the ceiling, and I wonder if there’s a chance he could ever trade his workaholic life for another.
Could he ever trade helping other people make memories with making his own? With making memories we share?
Dangerous thoughts.
If I let myself start believing there’s an us, I’m setting myself up for a nice killing trip to heartbreak city.
His arms tighten around me, and I let myself drift away on a dream where this sweet insanity doesn’t have an end date.
And when I let myself daydream, his kiss tastes ten times sweeter, and I fall a little more hopelessly into the imaginary blue promises in his eyes.
18
SWEET HELL (DEXTER)
The ritzy clubhouse is about as extravagant as I’d expect from Forrest Haute, complete with a mahogany bar and huge windows overlooking the golf course.
He’s had Liberty Trails in his portfolio of properties for about twenty years, and it’s the gem of his Missouri holdings.
The place breathes pure luxury, beckoning like a lighthouse to the best of the best. Word is there’s even a building or two here designed by Beatrice Nightingale Brandt, the world-famous architect, back in her heyday.
There’s no denying it’s an impressive property.
If anyone else owned it, I might even like it.
Since it’s Haute, I can only feel his smarminess and arrogance radiating from every surface and heavenly green acre of manicured lawn.
Not that he’s looking particularly smarmy or manicured himself today.
He’s gone for casual, dressed in a polo shirt slightly open at the neck. His greying hair is slicked back in a way that makes him look approachable.
And on his arm, his wife, Clara Haute. Her hair is a peroxide blonde and it’s clear she’s defying age with the help of a scalpel.
Next to Junie, she looks like she could be visiting from another planet.
I’ve spent weeks worrying about what happens if Haute doesn’t buy this ruse.
This is the magic moment we’ve waited for. The time when everything has the potential to go tits up.
Any second now, Haute could sense there’s something off. Then he can accuse us of lying and the deal goes up in smoke.
But if I’m supposed to be nervous, I don’t feel it.
That’s the scariest thing of all, maybe, because when Junie glances up at me with those big green eyes, half laughing at something Clara said, it feels easy. Calm. Relaxed, like this entire situation is natural.
“How long have you been together?” Clara asks Junie politely, clawing at her own engagement ring with a little too much enthusiasm.
“A little over half a year, give or take,” Junie says, leaning against my arm.
“Ohhh, so speedy.” Clara stares at Junie’s ring again. “Although I can’t talk. Forrest and I were engaged after three months, weren’t we?”
Haute starts like he’s forgotten we’re all there, and he slides his gaze away from Junie.
“That’s right. When you know, you know. A man shouldn’t wait too long to pounce.” He’s eyeing Junie as he says it, and why the fuck is he wearing that smile?
“When you know, you know,” Junie echoes flatly. “That’s how it was for us. One little fight over art and here we are, engaged.”
“How did you propose?” Clara asks brightly. “Was it romantic?”
I bite back a smile, knowing how unromantic it really was, and Junie pinches my arm.
“It was very sweet,” she says. “He did the whole thing. It was private, which was fine by me, I’m not the type of girl for an audience. Flowers, a nice meal, then down on one knee.”
The down-on-one-knee part sounds right, at least. A spontaneous joke, but one I’m weirdly happy about now.
Clara clasps her hands together. “How sweet. Where’d you go for dinner?”
“It was a picnic, actually,” she throws out. We had a script, but now she’s going rogue. “This lovely little spot by the river. Not far from the Mill you boys are so invested in, I think.”
“The place couldn’t be better for romance. I know how much Junie loves picnics,” I say. A lie, but somehow, I’m sure they’re something she loves.
I know better than a few scripted bullet points.
More than I should.
It’s like I have a sixth sense for what truly gets her heart going or smothers her spirits.
When the hell did that happen?
“He made me cupcakes.” Junie beams me a twinkling glance I can’t quite interpret. “Pretty ones with butterflies on the top.”