Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“I haven’t lost my mind,” he retorts, and his fingers dig deeper into my skin. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re ruining your life. Can’t you see that? Do you even understand what your life is going to be like without me? I’m here because I care about you, Norah. I want what’s best for you. And this, right here, working in a fucking coffee shop, isn’t it. You need me.”
Memories crash into my head like a car accident. My mother. Thomas proposing. The wedding. The envelope. The fact that him saying I need him isn’t the first time he’s said that to me.
I hope the truth will set you free.
I should tell him I don’t need him. I should tell him that I’ve never needed him, but something stops me from saying it.
My chest feels like someone cracked open my heart with a crowbar.
“Norah, baby, you know you need me,” he whispers and moves his face closer to mine. “And it’s okay. I can forgive you for all the embarrassment you’ve caused. I can move past that, but you need to talk to me. Tell me what is going on.”
His words make my stomach churn. And I can’t even bring myself to look him in the eye.
I just want to get away.
“Stop, Thomas.” I yank my arm away from his hold. “Just stop. You need to go. I want you to go.”
“I’m not leaving.” His jaw tightens as he steps closer and grabs my forearm in his hand again, but this time, his grip is tighter, and his usually light hazel eyes look as dark as a bad thunderstorm cloud on a hot summer day. “I’m not fucking leaving here without you, Norah.”
I’ve never seen him like this. It freezes my vocal cords. Freezes my ability to do anything but stand there. I am ice and he is fire, and any minute, I am going to melt under his scorching glare.
Normally, Thomas Conrad Michael King III is perfectly groomed in every way and the skin on his face is baby-smooth and he always has his most charming smile intact.
But this version of Thomas is something I’ve never seen before.
His white collared shirt is wrinkled. His hair is a mess. And he’s angry, so angry, in a way that I didn’t even know was possible for a guy like him. Thomas never looks unkempt, and he doesn’t show any kind of negative emotion. But his fury is right there on the surface and showcased in every harsh line on his face.
“Get off me, Thomas.” I try to shake him free, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is rock solid, and with a harsh yank, he forces my feet to follow him toward the door.
The last thing I want to do is go anywhere with him, but my mind feels like it’s underwater and the shock of the situation is muffling everything around me.
“Thomas, let me go. Seriously. This isn’t okay.”
He doesn’t listen and his strides are quick and long, and the awkward angle at which he’s holding my forearm makes it hard for me to do anything else but focus on not tripping over my own two feet.
“You heard her. Let her go,” a voice that is not mine or Thomas’s fills the empty space of the coffee shop, and I look up to find fake Norman Wallace standing there, blocking the door. I didn’t even hear the tinkle of the bells.
“This isn’t your business,” Thomas spits. “Get out of the way.”
“Let go of her arm.” It’s a command, barren of any and all room for negotiation.
Thomas doesn’t, and apparently fake Norman Wallace doesn’t demand respect more than twice without taking it for himself.
With one lift of his fist, he lands one hell of a punch to Thomas’s face, and a sickening crunch echoes off the walls. The grip on my arm is released, and my ex crumbles to the floor like a pile of broken bricks.
Blood drips from a prostrate Thomas’s nose and onto the pristine material of his white shirt and the tile floor of Josie’s coffee shop, and all I can do is stand there. Frozen in time. Unable to move.
Sheriff Peeler, a man I met during the morning rush early this morning, and the mayor come careening through the door, nearly running over me and fake Norman and Thomas and the whole sordid crime scene.
“Call the fucking cops, Norah,” Thomas shouts from the floor, his vision clouded by the blood from his nose.
“No need, son. Cops are already here,” Sheriff Peeler announces. “What’s going on, Ben?”
Ben only has one word to say. “Fuck.”
Fuck, indeed. Fuck, for sure. In fact, I should have fucking said it myself.
9
Bennett
This shit, right here, is exactly what I shouldn’t be doing in Red Bridge. I back away from the asshole on the floor and cross my hands behind my head as the possible consequences of my actions spin through my mind.