Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
"Overwhelming?" Maggie asked.
"I was going to say perfect." I lowered my voice as I passed the group in the fancy ski wear, who were now complaining about the champagne selection at the slope-side bar. "But also that."
"How's the altitude treating you?"
"Like I aged fifty years overnight." I paused to catch my breath. "Walking up a couple stairs makes me feel like I just ran a marathon.”
"Just wait until you try skiing,” Maggie said.
"Bold of you to assume I'm going anywhere near those death slopes. I've seen way too many movies where the girl tries to ski to impress some guy and ends up taking out half the resort."
"Speaking of guys trying to impress you..."
"Please don't."
"Three texts this week! That's commitment."
“If I was responding? Maybe. But I’m not, so I’d call it harassment.”
“Come on. It’s kind of sweet.”
“I went on one date with him over a month ago now. And I told him in completely clear, unambiguous terms that I didn’t think it was going to work out.”
“Didn’t think,” Maggie chirped, as if she had discovered a vital clue.
“Oh, come on. I was just trying to put it nicer than saying ‘we have literally nothing in common and we have about as much chemistry as a lukewarm glass of water.”
“Hey, water has chemistry. Hydrogen bonding with oxygen. It’s basically the building block of all complex chemistry.”
“Bad example,” I sighed. “But I’m really not interested in Kyle. At all. Yesterday he sent me a photo of his lunch with the caption 'wish you were here.' It was a protein shake."
"Men are weird." Maggie paused. "Though you could do worse. He's stable, successful—"
"Not interested. Just like I told him," I finished. "Besides, I'm here to work. No distractions. I already had to block him on Instagram after he liked every single one of my posts from the last year."
"Right. But I feel like it’s my duty as your closest friend to point out the obvious.”
“Why do I feel like your point is neither going to be obvious or necessary?”
“Which is,” Maggie continued, unbothered by my question, “that you haven’t been the same since Ireland. Before that, you would’ve been daydreaming about these guys you’ve dated. You would’ve been adding to your little ‘secret’ wedding board. And now? You’re like a crotchety old woman who can’t be pleased by any guy, no matter how acceptable he might be.”
“Acceptable?” I laughed. “Is that the bar we’re aiming for here? Because what’s the point of hitching my wagon to a guy if it’s not right? So we can get to our wedding day and watch it all fall apart?”
There was a long pause. “You realize that’s not—”
“Hey, Maggie,” I said, cutting her off as it was my turn to step up to the counter and check in. “I gotta go. Bye.”
“This isn’t—”
I ended the call and gave the staff member my information and waited while she clacked away at her keyboard while wearing an odd smile.
Did rich people get offended if staff didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves while doing menial, tedious tasks? Or maybe this girl just… loved typing?
My thoughts drifted back to Maggie, and the point she was trying to make. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to broach the subject of my… distance. But I knew there was no point in trying to explain it to her. She just didn’t understand.
I spent so much of my life romanticizing love and weddings. I let it get to the point where I was completely blind to reality—where I thought all I needed to do was reach the wedding, as if it was some kind of finish line. It was, of course, ridiculous.
The wedding was hardly even the beginning, and people who reached that point with the wrong person were only setting themselves up for failure and heartbreak.
So, sure, maybe guys like Kyle and Brad weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t good enough. They weren’t perfect, and I wasn’t going to waste my time or risk my heart on anybody short of perfect. I’d just keep focusing on my own career, my professional goals, and… well, if Mr. Perfect never came along? So what? At least I’d be spared the heartbreak of forcing it to work with the wrong guy.
“There,” the woman said, her artificial smile widening. "You're in the Mountain View Suite." She handed over a satisfyingly heavy black and gold keycard. "Mr. Wellington specifically requested it for you."
Of course he did. I'd only spoken to Martha Wellington over the phone so far, but her husband's reputation preceded him. Richard Wellington III didn't do anything halfway. According to my research (okay, late-night web searches), the family owned properties across five continents and had some connection to actual royalty that I couldn't quite figure out.
It was all oddly vague and hard to pin down, actually. When I had tried to look at exactly which properties they owned or who they were related to, I kept finding myself in circular loops that wouldn’t say where or what they were. But it wasn’t shocking. With money like that, it probably wasn’t hard to buy privacy, even on the internet.