Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 126589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“I’m deathly afraid of spiders,” she admitted as she spun the glass slowly between her thumb and middle finger. “I once moved out of my bedroom and slept on the sleeper couch in the spare room for a week until Granny June managed to root the offending spider out and release him back into the garden.”
His eyes narrowed and she tilted her chin defensively, not sure what that look was about.
“And that’s your deepest, darkest secret?”
“Well, maybe not the deepest or darkest, but it’s not common knowledge.”
“A lot people have some level of arachnophobia,” he said, and she glared at him.
“Are you contesting the validity of my secret? Is this a tactic to get out of telling me one of yours?”
“Not at all, it’s just not what—” He stopped talking and drank down more of his juice. “Fine. I suppose it’s my turn.”
His hand went up to his mouth and he tugged at his lower lip while he watched her consideringly for a moment. Beth watched the tug and release of that lower lip in fascination, tempted to reach out and smooth her own finger over that wicked curve.
Then he spoke and his words immediately riveted her and brought her eyes back up to his.
“My mother had breast cancer,” he said in a soft, emotionless voice. “She’d had a double mastectomy and, for a while, it seemed like she had it beaten, but she lost her fight three years after her initial diagnosis. About ten years ago now.”
Her eyes widened and burned as she stared at him. His usually lively gaze was heavy with profound sorrow. Sorrow which bled into his face and lined his brow, and etched deep grooves down the sides of his mouth.
“Oh my God, I’m so sor—” He held up his hand to silence her and shook his head.
“I’m not done,” he muttered. “That’s not my secret.”
Oh.
He cleared his throat and scrubbed a hand down his face before continuing, “I was twenty-one at the time. And McKenna had just turned nineteen. It affected us all profoundly, but it hit McKenna hard because she was the youngest and the only girl. That’s why she became an oncologist. Our mom’s illness shaped her entire life and made her want to help as many people in similar situations as possible.
“I’m not like her, I don’t do as much good…but I’ve tried to do the best I can with the bit of talent I have. My father didn’t approve of my frivolous pursuit of the arts”—the way his voice roughened, and his accent thickened on the last five words told her he was unconsciously imitating his father—“and because I was a bit of a rebel I figured since he already disapproved of my choices, I might as well double down. So I became a self-taught tattoo artist. I worked in a couple of studios, and eventually managed to start up my own in Sea Point. About four years ago, Kenny asked me for a favor. An after-hours gig to preserve the privacy of the person involved. It was a woman, one of Kenny’s patients who’d undergone a double mastectomy. She’d had surgical reconstruction of both breasts and was in complete remission. She needed nipples tattooed on her new breasts. It was the final stage of her recovery. I was happy to oblige.
“Since then, I’ve helped many of Kenny’s patients. Some wanted nipples, some wanted scar cover-ups. Most of them were mastectomy patients, but I’ve seen women with other surgical scars. They come to me at their most vulnerable and I do my best—in the few hours I have with them—to restore some of their lost confidence.”
“So all those women…?”
“I don’t really care what you think of me, Lizzy,” he said, lifting and dropping his broad shoulders. “But those women are warriors and deserve to be respected.”
Feeling no bigger than a worm, Beth dropped her eyes to the damp circle her glass had left on the table surface. He hadn’t brought coasters. She wiped at the wetness, hoping to avoid a permanent water stain on the mahogany. It was another delaying tactic, solely intended to help her gather her thoughts before speaking, but he took it the wrong way and swore beneath his breath before pushing away from the table. The chair scraped harshly on the wooden floor and she flinched at the jarring sound. He stalked to the kitchen and ripped a couple of swathes off the roller towel.
He impatiently mopped up the damp circles with one of the pieces of paper towel, his movements abrupt and impatient, before tearing the leftover piece in two and pointedly sliding the halves beneath each of their glasses.
He flipped his chair around to straddle it, and pinned her with his frigid gaze. “I didn’t mean to ruin your precious table.”
He must think she was a cold, heartless bitch, if he truly believed that—after what he’d just told her—her main concern was for her table.