Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I just wanted to make roots. He knew how many times we’d moved over the years, and I told him I wanted a place to call home.
My thoughts go back to my mom giving up, to my dad not wanting me. He moved on, found someone to replace my mom and me as if we were completely disposable.
The same way John so easily replaced me.
Am I ever going to be enough to be considered irreplaceable? For someone to put first?
And what about the magic? I haven’t felt it since my mom died. Maybe it’s only just an illusion and I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist.
No, I tell myself, refusing to believe that. The magic is real. I just need to find it.
But what if I don’t? What if the magic died with my mom and I never feel it again?
My phone dings, and when I pull it out, I find a text from Marina, asking me to call her.
John or Phoebe must’ve told her what happened.
Or maybe she already knew, and she’s concerned about her wedding. I’m a bridesmaid, and John is a groomsman. Maybe she wants me to hand over my dress to Phoebe so she can walk down the aisle with John.
My thoughts go back to Phoebe bent over the counter. Her breasts are smaller than mine. And where I’m five foot eight without heels, she’s petite, probably a good six inches shorter. She’d never fit into my dress, which means Marina will need me to walk down the aisle with John with a smile plastered on my face.
Great. Just what I need. To attend a wedding right after ending a relationship.
“Ma’am, is there anything else I can help you with?” the woman at the desk asks in her smooth British accent, reminding me that I’m standing in the hotel lobby, in London, the city where I found out my dad never wanted me, where my mom took her last breath, and now, where the man I once thought was my forever cheated on me with a woman who I thought was my friend.
Mom always made it seem like London was this magical place. But now ...
Tears prick my eyes, and I grab my luggage, rolling it behind me toward the exit, suddenly feeling claustrophobic, like I’m being suffocated by so many different emotions.
When I step outside, the cool air hits my face and freezes my tears to my cheeks. I have no idea where I’m going, other than needing to get away.
So, I’m not paying attention when the front of my shoe gets stuck on an uneven piece of the cobblestone, and I stumble forward into the middle of the road. I try to stop, but the velocity propelling me forward is too strong, and my hands and knees hit the ground just as a car is driving in.
I close my eyes, knowing there’s no way I’ll make it out of their way in time, and pray I don’t get run over.
I’m still praying when strong hands lift me off the ground and into their arms.
My eyes pop open, and I’m met with reddish-brown eyes that remind me of Kingston’s bourbon whiskey. It has notes of vanilla and caramel to give it the perfect amount of sweetness, and I briefly wonder if this man would taste as sweet.
Jesus, did I hit my head on the cobblestone?
“Are you okay?” a smooth, masculine voice asks, breaking me from my thoughts. “You took quite a fall.”
His words lack the British accent, telling me he’s not from here.
“I’m going to set you down,” he says once we’re back inside the hotel lobby.
There’s a couch in the corner, and he gently sets me on it, then kneels so he’s at my level.
“Does it hurt anywhere?” he asks, his whiskey-colored eyes peering into mine.
I wiggle my toes and fingers and then glance down at my body, mentally checking to see if anything hurts.
“Other than my pride, no,” I mutter.
The gentleman surprises me when he barks out a laugh, and I can’t help but notice the way his Adam’s apple rolls down his throat. His hair is styled neatly to the side, and he’s sporting a few-days-old stubble. He’s wearing a gray suit, but even with his body covered, I can make out his muscular form underneath.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “Today has sucked, and being hit by a car would’ve made it suck worse.”
His lips quirk, as if he’s trying to tamp down a grin.
“It’s only”—he flicks his wrist and glances down at his watch—“nine in the morning. Surely, there’s still time to turn it around.” Then, he reaches out and brushes his thumb along my cheek, reminding me that I was crying.
“Unless you have a magical wand that can turn back time so I don’t show up at my ex’s flat and walk in on him screwing my friend in his kitchen, I don’t think so.”