Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
He offers to let me go first, but I pause and let him lead me.
“Come on, let’s sit back here,” he says, tugging on the fabric at my wrist.
Following Charlie into the small, dark bar, I notice he walks with authority. I like his confidence and slight swagger. He’s comfortable with who he is. I wish I were more like that. I live in the middle these days, caught between my old life and a new one I’m trying to forge.
He walks to a small table in the corner like it’s reserved for him. He seems relaxed, more in his element here. After he pulls the chair out for me, I sit, but he remains standing, and asks, “What would you like?”
“Whatever you’re having will work.” I honestly don’t care what I’m drinking. I just know that I need a drink . . . or five.
I’m not on a mission to get drunk, but by the time we finish our second old-fashioned, it’s starting to feel inevitable. The whiskey and bitters don’t taste as strong as they did at first. That’s always a sign I’m starting to be affected, yet I don’t care. The creeping numbness is a nice change from the intense emotions of the day.
Every second spent together isn’t filled with meaningless words, but I enjoy the lightness of the words we do share.
“I’m ready for another.” I’m relaxed, too relaxed, maybe tipsy, definitely buzzed.
“How about we switch to beer?” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table.
“I’m not drunk,” I reply, feeling defensive.
He smiles, laughing under his breath. “I didn’t say you were. I just think we should slow down a bit.”
“Fine.” I know I’ll feel bad in the morning if I don’t pace myself better. “Beer it is, then. A lager, please.”
“Why do I find it so attractive that you know about beer?”
“Are you saying you find me or my knowledge of beer attractive?” I rest my chin on my hand, with my elbow planted on the table and a flirty smirk in place.
“Ha! I think I’ll add two waters to that order.”
Even with a fuzzy mind, I know he’s insinuating that I’m drunk. He calls over his shoulder to the bartender as I continue looking at him, really looking at him.
He’s more than just attractive—he’s gorgeous. Is it the way his long lashes fan upward toward his eyebrows as he twists his body to make eye contact with the barman? No, not just that. Maybe it’s the way his jaw cuts under his chin, sharpening at the edge, displaying its strength for all to see.
Maybe.
But when he turns, looking straight back at me, I figure it out. It’s his smile and the way his eyes match his every emotion. Jim had gotten good at hiding the lies in his eyes. But this is Charlie. So even though I can tell he’s from money from the funeral we attended and his snooty mother, his eyes make me want to trust him.
“What’s your story with the upper crust back at St. Bart’s?” I ask, wanting to find out all I can about this handsome man, but maybe that was a bit abrasive. “Sorry about that. I kind of lose my filter when I drink.”
I must amuse him because he laughs lightly, but it’s there like he’ll answer simply to entertain me. “That’s all right. I like that you’re straightforward.”
“Good.” I smile, feeling mischievous. “So I gather you’re a fancy pants from the Upper East Side?”
That makes him laugh. “I was.”
“Not anymore?”
“No, not anymore.”
“Sounds like a story to me. You want to tell it?” I ask, all humor gone as I lean back in my chair and take the last sip of my drink.
He sips his old-fashioned, but I can see the debate happening in his head, the momentary avoidance going on. I guess he decides he trusts me because he says, “As I mentioned, I’m the black sheep of the family. I was cut off from my parents’ money years ago. They cut off some of their love for me in the process. We haven’t yet recovered from the upheaval. But that’s a story for another time.” He taps his glass against mine. “I hope to have another time to share it with you, but for now, let’s talk about you. You don’t have to, but if you want to talk about Jim, I’m here. I’ll listen.”
No! my mind shouts. That’s my normal reaction to thinking about him, much less talking about him. I’m not comfortable with the attention focused on my past and me. I grab my water to help stave off the dryness that has overwhelmed my throat. When I set the glass down, the shock subsides. Jim’s name being said in this bar, this sanctuary that we escaped to, is disconcerting.
I don’t blame him for being curious, though. Charlie witnessed Cherry firsthand today, and something—okay, everything—about him makes me want to share more than I should. I’m not surprised he’s questioning the event, so I start near the beginning, the beginning of the end, despite the turmoil I feel inside. “Jim and I were engaged—”