Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“If there’s enough support for it, we can do for health technology what Elon Musk has done for the electric car.”
He’s almost childlike in his optimism and I have to look away, back down the sidewalk before my heart slips a little more out of my grasp. This is a side of James I wish he wouldn’t reveal to me. Beneath the layers of pretension and wealth sits a heart of gold. I doubt many people see this side of him, not because he presents a cold facade to the rest of the world, but because he rarely fills his life with people who take the time to see it. I think of his impersonal, empty house back in Austin, that quiet corner in his living room with the half-read book and the mismatched furniture.
“Do you want to stop in for a drink somewhere?” he asks, reaching out for my hand.
His palm covers mine so easily that for a moment I forget about my niggling doubts. I think we should stop and get a drink, and after, when I’m just a little bit tipsy and we’ve made out like two teenagers on the side of the street, we should head back to the hotel and have a repeat of last night. It would feel good to forget about better judgment for another few hours. Maybe that’s exactly what I would have done, but then we walk past the Paris hotel and it jogs his memory.
“Oh, remind me when we get back to Austin,” James says, “there’s a restaurant I want us to try, Détour. It’s a bistro, romantic and small, not the kind of place you go to unless you’re there with someone special.”
I stiffen, aware of the meaning dripping from that sentence. First, I’m that someone special for James. Second, it’s the first time either of us has brought up the idea of continuing this once we’re back in Austin.
“Have you heard of it?” he continues, oblivious to the fact that I’m minutes away from a panic attack.
I nod and continue walking, all but pulling him in my wake.
“Hey, slow down. There’s no rush.”
His imperturbable calm finally does it. I can’t keep the lid on my emotions for another second.
“Yes, there is!” I explode, tearing my hand away from his and spinning around to face him on the sidewalk. “What are we doing? What is this?”
We’re blocking the flow of traffic, forcing tourists to weave around us.
“What do you mean?” he asks, wearing a mask of perfect confusion.
It makes me absolutely furious. He doesn’t get to suddenly feign amnesia. We both went into this with eyes wide open, but ever since we arrived in Vegas, James has acted like the two of us could actually be something, like this is a real thing forming here.
“Why’d you bring me here?” I shout over the noise of the crowd.
“Because I wanted to,” he answers simply.
I shake my head, angered by his answer. “No, why did you really bring me here?”
He looks away, tugs his hand through his hair, and then finally looks back. His eyes are different, the hopeful gleam gone. “Because this is pointless, us trying to stay away from each other. Why? For what? Because you don’t want to get married? Great!” He throws his hands in the air. “We won’t get married!”
“It’s more than that!” I cry.
“Fine. C’mon.” He steps closer and reaches for me, tugging me against him so I have to lean my head back to look up at him. “Tell me all the reasons we shouldn’t be together. You’re too young? You want to travel? You have a million excuses you’ve built up against me, haven’t you?”
“Excuses?!” I’m furious at the fact that he’s trying to belittle my goals, my life.
“Yeah,” he says, dropping my arms. “You think I haven’t noticed how distant you’ve been today? When I reached for your hand at dinner and you pulled it away? I got it, Brooke. Loud and clear.”
Unshed tears burn the backs of my eyes. “Why did you have to put so much pressure on this, on us, right from the beginning? I’m looking for a wife and kids—who says that to someone they just met? Haven’t you ever heard of the whole boiling frog thing?”
“What are you talking about?”
I’m annoyed that I have to explain it.
“If you throw a frog into a pot of boiling water, it’s going to panic and jump out. But, if you put the frog in cool water then slowly heat it up, it won’t even notice the temperature rising.”
“So you want to be a dead frog?”
He’s being obtuse on purpose.
I sigh, exasperated. “The point is, with us, the water started too hot.”
He shakes his head, visibly frustrated. “Don’t paint me out to be the bad guy. I was honest with you—don’t throw that back in my face.”