Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Anyway, the timing needs to be perfect for this,” she said, keen to change the subject. Her voice low, rushed, shaky and breathless. God, why’d she have to sound so damned breathless? “We need to have the champagne glasses filled, on trays and ready to be served in time for the toast.”
Trystan eyed the sea of gleaming glasses—two-hundred-and-fifty of them to be precise—skeptically and asked, “How long do we have?”
Iris glanced at the clock.
“Fifteen minutes, according to the wedding planner’s schedule, but these things rarely go according to plan. Still, we work according to the schedule. Everything else is out of our hands.”
“I reckon we’d better get to pouring then,” Trystan said, picking up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and spinning it on his palm like a professional bartender.
“Don’t show off,” Iris warned. “My dad will lose his shit if you break a bottle. And he’s on the verge of a meltdown already.”
Trystan slanted a wary glance toward her father, who was reprimanding one of the younger waitstaff for not paying attention—Iris was very aware of the fact that many of the staff were still openly staring at her and Trystan—which was exactly the type of distraction she’d feared his presence here would create.
“He is a little terrifying,” Trystan admitted beneath his breath and Iris’s eyebrows rose to her hairline, shocked to hear him say that.
“My dad? The scrawny, balding guy over there?”
“He’s your father, Iris. I’m trying to make a good impression.”
Iris—who had been reaching for a bottle—froze at that admission and stared at him.
“Why are you here, Trystan? Aren’t you supposed to be heading to New York today?”
“I cut the tour short.” This bit of news stunned Iris and she wondered what Hunter Quinn’s reaction to that had been. “And I think I made the why of this more than clear during our last phone call.”
“But—”
“And on the Mike Holmes show.” He poured while he spoke, keeping his gaze on the flute instead of her. Iris watched him while he did that, and that grave, studied concentration somehow gave him a devastating, boyish appeal . He glanced up at her, a devastating stare through that fall of hair. “I want you back, Iris.”
“It’s not that easy, Trystan,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Maybe in the beginning after our return from South Africa, if all of that awful shit with the article hadn’t happened, we could have made a good go of it. But after everything—the humiliation, the pain, the fear, the harassment, your treatment of me—I can very definitively state that your life is not for me. I can’t live like that.”
She set to work pouring champagne, noting that Trystan—who obviously knew his stuff—was filling precisely two-thirds of each flute, and each glass was uniformly level. He held the bottle with practiced ease, thumb inside the punt to maintain a good grip.
He stopped pouring to meet her eyes and her breath caught at the naked vulnerability buried within the depths of his silver gaze.
“You said you forgave me.” Which had to mean that he’d read her text… finally. Was that why he was here? When had he read it? After checking almost every hour on the hour for a day and a half, Iris had given up on him ever seeing it, thinking he’d finally moved on. It had left her feeling hollow and devastated and heartbroken all over again, but ultimately, she’d decided that it was best for both of them to move on with their lives. She’d very determinedly muted and archived the conversation, and had resisted the impulse to check it again.
“I have, Trystan. I didn’t want to walk around with resentment, bitterness and anger in my heart toward you. I wanted to move on with my life and remember our time together with warmth, affection.”
“Warmth and affection?” he repeated, his voice acidic and scathing. “Like a comfy blanket. All nice and pleasant. What about the passion, Iris? The soul-deep connection? The off-the-charts chemistry? What about the fucking love? Is that what you’ll be remembering with this warmth and affection?” The volume in his voice had increased, drawing attention, but this time Iris didn’t even care that they were creating a scene, or that it was interfering with their work. How could she care about that when confronted by this much outraged, affronted, clearly wounded male?
“What do you want me to say, Trystan?” she snapped back, furious now. Angry that he was pushing this, that he wouldn’t just let it—the notion of them—die a dignified, silent death. “Do want to hear how truly fucking pissed off I am with you for ruining what we had? Do you want to hear every detail of how much you hurt me? Of how I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function because of how much I missed you? How I held out hope for the longest time—while I was trapped in my room too terrified to leave home for fear of being harassed and accosted—that you would realize your mistake and come and save me from the madness? But you never came. And when you finally did come to your senses the damage had been done. I can’t live like that again. I can’t. I refuse to. I forgive you Trystan, but I can’t be in your life.”