Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
It was a weird feeling to be sitting across from the current most famous woman in the country, to know her better, he thought, than anyone. He mumbled a quiet, “Yeah. Of course.”
She spread the butter and poured syrup and then poked at the pancakes with her fork. There was a lot on his mind, but nothing he felt he could say out loud. He didn’t want to tell her how huge the story had become, how there were gigantic mobs of strangers standing in front of the hotel holding signs proclaiming how strong and amazing she was, or how people from all over the world had already donated an ungodly amount to a trust set up for her by the State of Georgia. How she would never have to worry about money again. It was already too much.
All he cared was that Ren never had to worry about her safety again.
“How are the pancakes?” he asked, stupidly, because she hadn’t even taken a bite.
She looked up at him. “What happened in the juvenile correction facility?”
He smiled down at his Caesar salad, relieved to be given this prompt, relieved she wasn’t scared off by what he’d told her last night. “All right. I like it. Keeping me on track.”
So he picked up where he’d left off, telling her about how he learned in juvie that he actually loved school, that therapy was pretty effective, and—most importantly—that he could play by anyone’s rules. He learned to leverage his greatest skill—charm—to make his life easier. He told her how he became a model inmate, how Judge Amira Iman took him under her wing, brought him to city fundraisers for disadvantaged youth to meet and talk to people in the community, and how it was there that he met the socialite Rose Fitzsimmons, and the spark of an idea struck her that she wanted to do more to help than throw money at the various foundations: Rose wanted to adopt a fifteen-year-old reformed hooligan named Edward Fallon. And then he told Ren how Rose’s husband, real estate developer Robert Fitzsimmons, loved the idea of adopting him, but for a completely different reason: After a slew of lawsuits that claimed his firm had broken various civil and criminal codes, he needed an image overhaul.
And once he learned the truth about Robert, young Edward was a very willing accessory: His new father’s latest project, a high-end series of condominiums, was to be built on the same city block where Mary’s apartment—and Edward’s happily ever after—had once stood. With the ember of loss still burning in his chest, Edward hoped he could one day gather enough information on local developers to be able to take them down one by one.
Edward told Ren about moving into the Fitzsimmons estate, about how he felt out of place from the minute he first stepped foot on the property. He told Ren how he took the opportunity whenever he could to learn how to integrate himself into every situation: fancy dinners with politicians and in the kitchen with the staff; pickup basketball games at the park and fundraisers with celebrities. He hated everything about the rich, privileged life he was living, and a plan was forming even then, one where he would use everything he learned living in that house to take down the first pillar of the big developer community: Robert Fitzsimmons.
By that point, Ren’s eyes had lost some of their attentive focus, and he stood, taking her napkin and piling everything neatly on the table. “Let’s get you to bed.”
They rolled the room service table into the hall, where the Fridge grunted out a sound of greeting and wheeled their dinner away.
Ren put her hand on Edward’s arm. “Don’t go.”
With a grin, he reminded her, “I’m not going anywhere until you kick me out.”
This earned him a tiny flicker of a smile, and they carefully locked up, brushed teeth side by side, and then climbed back into the giant bed.
She reached over, turning out the bedside lamp, leaving only the light from the bathroom softly drifting across the foot of the bed. Ren rolled to face him, curling up on her side, hands tucked up under her chin. She was so beautiful, it made his chest constrict.
“How’s my Sunshine feeling tonight?”
Instead of answering, she asked, “Why didn’t you just walk away when I left you in Atlanta? Weren’t you mad?”
It took immense effort to not propel his body forward and pull her into his arms. “No, Ren. I wasn’t mad, not for one second. I don’t trust easily, and I’m working on that, but I do trust you. If you left, I knew there had to be a good reason. I was only ever worried.” He tilted his head, smiling. “Panicked may be a better word, especially once we put together what happened.”