Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Frowning, Natalie opened the email and found a short message: Sorry if I’m the first one to tell you, just didn’t want you to be blindsided this week. Below that cryptic statement was a link to a New York Times article.
No, an engagement announcement.
For Morrison and his new girlfriend.
Her whole body beat once, a tingle at the crown of her head. Mostly out of shock. After that, she waited for the jealousy to rise up and drag her under.
It never did.
They were like two fictitious characters on the screen, smiling and two dimensional and so far away. What did those two people do for fun? Probably not a prank war. They definitely wouldn’t dance to “Brick House” at their wedding. But she hoped they had their own versions of those activities. She really did. Like, wow. She actually found herself truly hoping they would be happy. How evolved was that?
Thanks for letting me know, Natalie typed back. I’ll send a fruit basket.
She hit send and sat on the edge of the bed for another moment, still a little wary of the total lack of shits she gave over Morrison’s being engaged. What did that mean?
A gruff rendition of “Love Train” being sung in the kitchen drew her attention. She set her laptop on the bedside table and promptly forgot about the news. It was time to face her fate. No more putting it off. Whatever comeuppance was in her future, she would take it like a woman and immediately begin plotting revenge. Would it be sugar replaced with salt in an evening coffee? Or maybe even an old-school whoopee cushion. That smacked of August—
As soon as she opened her bedroom door, a bucket of water turned over and rained down on her head. It was like that famous scene from Flashdance, except she wasn’t wearing a sexy leotard and the absolute soaking wasn’t voluntary. No cinematic value whatsoever.
Standing at the stove and laughing like a psychotic hyena, August snapped a picture with his phone. “Photographic evidence. Bet you wish you’d thought of that.”
Natalie was still rendered speechless by the deluge. Not to mention, the fact that her embarrassment was now immortalized digitally. But when the bucket came loose from the door frame and plunked her square on the head, she thought on her feet, grabbing onto the opportunity for quick revenge with both hands.
“Ouch.” Her hand flew to the spot where the empty bucket had connected and sucked in an unsteady breath, blinking rapidly, as if holding back tears. “Ow, my head. Ouch.”
August went still as a statue, the blood draining from his face. “Oh my God.” He dropped his phone and it bounce-skidded under the table, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”
She gave a long, brave sniff and looked at her hand, wincing like she’d spotted blood. “I . . . I don’t know. I probably only need a few stitches.”
“Stitches?” August roared, stumbling into the table and upsetting the saltshaker. The poor man looked on the verge of passing out. His hands were shaking as he turned off the stove burners with jerky movements, reached for a dish towel, and stomped toward her, chest heaving up and down. “Come here, princess. Oh fuck, I’m so sorry. The bucket wasn’t supposed to fall.”
“I’m feeling a little faint,” she rasped, pitching to one side and clinging to the doorframe of her bedroom. “Do you think it’s a concussion?”
“No,” he breathed, horrified. White as a sheet. “No, no, no . . .”
Okay. Jig’s up. The man had suffered enough.
Right before he could tug away her hand to examine the nonexistent wound on top of her head, Natalie smiled. “Gotcha, babe.”
It was like watching an air mattress deflate in fast motion. The air just sort of blew out of him and he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. “That’s not funny, Natalie,” he wheezed. “I thought I split your head open.”
“You do. But only with migraines.”
He lifted his head, his complexion still lacking in color. “You’re really okay?”
Suddenly her heart weighed four hundred pounds.
And was roughly the size of a watermelon, the whole thing seeming to pry apart her ribs and protrude from her chest. Perhaps she needed an ambulance after all. “Yes, I’m okay. I was just getting you back.”
“Consider me gotten.”
He commenced a breathing exercise—in, in, out, in, in, out—she suspected was designed to calm him. And it was just barely working. Come to think of it, she was having a pretty difficult time breathing, too, her heart galloping like a Derby winner.
I’m falling for my husband.
Hard and fast.
Might even be well past . . . fallen for him territory.
Oh shit.
And he wiggled a little deeper into her heart when he straightened suddenly and crowded her into the doorway, brushing around the wet hair on her head gently, looking down at her from above. “I just need to check for myself,” he said, his warm breath on her forehead. “I don’t see anything. Thank God.” He closed his eyes, pressed their foreheads together. “You scared forty-six years off my life.”