Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
The whole package.
If I’d just had the courage to say no, to walk away sooner, I wouldn’t be here, ugly crying in a strange place that’s beyond my budget.
I wouldn’t be a runaway with no one left to turn to.
I wouldn’t be alone.
Sighing roughly, I close my eyes and tip my face up to the hot spray, pinching my lips together. At least the water feels good, washing away the sweat and panic, obscuring so many bad memories with its sensory overload.
One itty-bitty step toward un-fucking my life, maybe.
Not that I’m about to erase this mess with one nice shower.
Eventually, I know I’ll have to face the music, but that’s a tomorrow problem.
Tonight, I just want to forget.
To feel like a human being again, and not a sweaty heartbroken slob with a corset in ruins.
I take my sweet time in the shower. There’s this high-end body wash that smells like fresh vanilla and citrus, courtesy of the host.
I still use the shampoo and conditioner I brought. I’ve got special stuff to handle the curls, because no matter how fancy the products are here, they won’t know how to tame my hair.
Let’s be honest, I barely know what my hair needs. It’s a constant trial and error, because the second one product gives me smooth, sleek curls, my hair decides it’s ready to rewrite the rules.
And God, this morning, Mom insisted on doing my hair for me.
I think it was meant to be some sweet mother-daughter bonding thing on the worst day of my life. All she did was make my hair frizzy and stick a veil over it like that would solve all my problems.
This time, it’s not raw grief that makes my chest heave like a wolverine chewing through my vital organs.
It’s anger.
It’s knowing this entire crapfest could’ve been avoided if my family hadn’t believed I’d be better off with Holden Corban, the golden boy. The man who only wanted me so I could be a trophy wife accessory on his arm.
He didn’t court me.
He wore me like one of his gaudy gold watches.
I don’t hate Holden for being what he is, but that’s not to say I like him.
I don’t think he likes me, either.
He pretended to care just enough because it’s what everyone around him expects from an arranged marriage. Also, the optics were great for his career.
I’m sure they’re looking pretty heinous right now.
I only step out of the shower once my fingers resemble red, wrinkled sausages and start toweling myself down, calmly and ritualistically.
Dry off, rub product through my hair, wrap it up, get dressed.
My clothes smell like me. They look like me, too.
Big white tee with a picture of Seattle on the front. Never been, but who cares when you’re buying discount t-shirts to sleep in? Add a pair of pajama shorts, and I feel like a new woman.
Even though I’m planning to sleep like the dead, I spray on thick perfume, hoping to keep the sensory distraction going.
My perfume, this time.
Not Mom’s designer stuff or the perfume Auntie Sarah ponied up for my wedding day so I could smell sophisticated.
I almost died choking.
No, this smells like me, and it helps me relax.
I’ve got this place to myself for three whole days. I’m determined to spend every second decompressing from life.
I’m on the verge of another broken smile when my ears start ringing.
A noise outside?
So much for relaxing.
My heart starts thudding.
What was that, anyway?
It sounded like a bang, a little like someone knocking something heavy over.
I’m suddenly horribly aware that I’m in the middle of nowhere. Alone and isolated with my misery.
Of course, I left my phone on the counter like a magnificent idiot.
It’s probably dead from losing power, too. I didn’t stop to dig out my charger and plug it in.
Great work, Winnie. Safety 101 and you fail.
I chew my lip, mulling over my options. With my rancid luck, it’ll be a rabid racoon, which I can fight off and then enjoy a blistering round of painful shots.
But at least I can fight it off.
What if it’s a prowler?
I swear I can feel the blood draining from my face.
Oh, boy. Here we go.
Between knife-wielding bandits and wild animals foaming at the mouth, I’ll take the furry doom for sure. If it’s human and he means to do me harm, I doubt I’ll get a crack at a miserable ER visit.
Stop it. Pull yourself together.
You’re not this scared of a stupid racoon pawing around.
I am, in fact, very afraid of a stupid plague racoon, but hiding in the bathroom won’t solve anything. If I could just call animal control…
My phone is on the counter. Hopefully it still has a little battery life.
I just need to creep out and get it.
Balling up my spare towel like a club, I pad to the door and turn the handle slowly, carefully opening it.