Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Yes, you can. You’ve been playing good girl and lying low, and all you can show for it is what? An excessive time spent at the yoga studio?” She points to my baggy sweatshirt. I have, in fact, only just returned from my third hot yoga session of the day.
“Doctors advise it’s healthy.”
“There’s nothing healthy about a woman pushing down her feelings and covering her workaholism with yoga pants.”
I hate how perceptive my mother is with her small acknowledgment that I haven’t been the same since the day Crue left. I don’t like to admit the unsettling feeling his absence has left within my world.
“I don’t have plans to go.”
“Didn’t you say your friend had a baby? Be a good friend and go visit the girl. I bet she would love that. New mothers are flustered, and time with familiar, trusted people is good for them. It’s tiring being a mother.” I control myself from reminding her that she was hardly a ‘good’ mother.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too hard. I booked a flight for us in two days.”
“What?” I screech.
“I might not be a good mother, but I know when a woman needs an escape. Maybe a rendezvous with another man… no?”
A nauseous swirl stirs in my stomach. That doesn’t sit well with me, either. Because in my dreams and fantasies, there’s only one pair of hands I imagine touching me.
The doorbell buzzes.
My mother and I look at one another. My first thought is, what if it’s Crue? But I know better than that. He would never buzz the door. That man would waltz on in as if he owned the damn place.
I stand and answer the door to a courier.
“Delivery for Miss Ricci,” the man says, holding two boxes. “You need to sign for them.”
My eyebrows knit in confusion. I don’t remember ordering anything, even on the nights when I drank a whole bottle of wine to myself. I sign for the boxes, then take them inside. Grabbing a knife, I cut open the first box and shift the packing material to one side to reveal something red underneath.
Red leather and red lace.
Oh shit.
I forgot all about this.
My mother looks over and whistles appreciatively.
I didn’t really think he would send it to me, but here I am, holding the most expensive thing I own.
Wow.
I find a note at the bottom.
Dear Rya
I have requested Dawson send these your way. Even though you are a bitch, I still respect your body. And in doing so, I hate you.
I want you to know that.
I hate you.
But I also want to fuck you again.
In these outfits.
But I can’t and I won’t.
Because I’m getting married.
And that wouldn’t be very husband-like of me, would it?
Do not throw this out.
Do not reply.
The man you fucked over and shot.
I scrunch my nose up at the note.
And I don’t want to try the lingerie on anymore.
He’s getting married.
That was fast.
What’s it been, like, a four weeks?
Fuck him.
I inhale a shaky breath and turn to my mother, who pretends she’s busy looking elsewhere but most likely has read the note and knows everything.
“You know what? Let’s go on that girls’ trip,” I all but seethe. Fuck him. Hot yoga and wine are not going to help me get over this unbearable asshole, and maybe taking my first holiday from work would be good for the soul.
Sitting across from my mother on a plane to Italy was not exactly what I had planned. I didn’t end up telling Angel I was coming because I didn’t want to risk her mentioning to Crue that I would be there. I don’t want him to know I’m coming back home. I’m not going there to see him, so it’s only fair he doesn’t find out. But in saying that, I have a feeling nothing gets by him, and he will, without a doubt, figure out that I’m back.
My father and stepmother are waiting for me. As soon as I leave the airport, my father, despite being a ruthless man, has a kind smile when it’s directed at one of his children. His arms wrap around me immediately, and my stepmother, Sharon, offers me a small wave.
“Where is Honey?” I ask them.
“She’s going to meet us for dinner. I figured you would be down for a good meal,” my father says.
I turn to find my mother, who is already in the arms of another man. Who, I might add, she never told me she was here to see.
“I’ll see you later, sweetie.” My mother waves and gets into a car with said man.
“Hasn’t changed, I see,” my father comments. “But I’m thankful she got you here. Your sister has been dying to see you.” I technically haven’t seen my sister since I left, but I have spoken to her many times on the phone and even FaceTime.