Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“And I’m still sorry for telling mom and Roger you were the one who filled my favorite teddy bear with fireworks and set my bed on fire. I didn’t know they would send us both to boarding school for the rest of our education.”
Bentley acts like he didn’t hear.
“I'd love to have a relationship with you now that we’re adults. I thought we could use this hike to connect.”
“Think again.”
What a dick. I don’t know why I care, though. Why am I even eavesdropping on this sad but irrelevant conversation? I should retreat, but my feet don’t want to put distance between me and the female.
Which is crazy. She’s human. Off limits.
Not mine.
My bear seems to disagree.
Which is why I hover just out of sight like a stalker, sipping down her scent.
No. I grit my teeth and force myself to slip away. The sooner I get distance between me and the sweetly-scented female, the better. Nothing good can come of hanging around a tempting human.
I learned that the hard way.
Lana
I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching.
After I’ve turned and scoured the woods for the nth time, I ask Bentley, “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“There’s something in the woods. I thought I saw…” I stop and shade my eyes. My memory tells me there was a shadow gliding between the trees a second ago, but now there’s nothing there. “...Maybe it was just a bird.”
“Maybe it’s a bad bear going to come out of the woods and eat you.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “You sound like you’re looking forward to that.”
“Maybe I am.”
I shake my head. I give up–I can’t bridge the relationship between Bentley and me. Our parents would’ve wanted it–I think that’s why they contrived this little memorial ritual for us–and I did my best to connect, but he’s an ass. I have my standards.
I tromp on, rubbing away the prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
Bentley rounds on me and screws up his face like he smelled sweat-soaked wool socks. “And what the fuck are you wearing?” he asks like he's been criticizing me out loud all along.
“I’m so glad you asked.” I strike a pose. “This is the all-new hiking line by GoddessWear.”
Bentley sniffs and brushes past me, screwing the top back onto his water bottle. He doesn't even appreciate the high-tech fabric cut on a bias to lay flatteringly across my curves. I am a short queen and wonderfully round, and my new outfit is sporty and sexy at the same time. “No one makes cute hiking clothes in Goddess sizes,” I tell Bentley. “So I set out to do something about it.” I can’t hide the immense pride in my voice.
“Did it have to be that color?”
“What’s wrong with pink? It’s my favorite color.”
Bentley looks me up and down and sniffs. “It’s so bright, they’ll be able to see you from Santa Fe. Does it glow in the dark?”
“Yes,” I say with triumph. “In case I get lost or fall in a ravine. Easier for the rescuers to find me.”
He marches on, grumbling under his breath.
“Accidents happen,” I trill and scramble after him.
“They sure do.” I don’t know why it sounds like Bentley’s gloating. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why did my dad want to be tossed off this mountain anyway?”
I bite my lip before I bite his head off for referring to the spreading of our parents' ashes as getting tossed off this mountain.
I am made of sunshine. That’s what my mom used to tell me, anyway. It was probably a learned coping mechanism for living with a stepbrother who hated me and being raised by nannies and very uninvolved rich parents.
My mom and my stepdad, Roger, weren’t very present as parents. After boarding school, I moved out on my own.
I pause to rub my chest, but it’s an automatic gesture, not a necessary one. The tight knots under my breastbone have eased. I did love my parents, but the shock and horror of the private plane crash that took their lives has worn off. I'm tired and a little bit empty, and I'm ready for this step in the grieving process. The urn with their ashes has been on my mantle in my house in Hollywood Hills for a year and a half.
“They had fond memories of visiting here,” I say. “It was the third stop on their honeymoon. After Park City and before Taos.”
“I’m sure it was your mom’s idea. Why anyone would willingly come to this shitty mountain is beyond me.”
“What are you talking about? This mountain is perfect. It’s like a postcard. Everything about it is so picturesque.”
“Picturesque? What the fuck about this place is picturesque?” He wrinkles his nose like he’s smelling dog poop.
“Everything,” I rush to defend. “The pink mountains, the little town. Even the name is cute.”