Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
* * *
Blonde, with green eyes that match Drew’s, golden skin that highlights a thin frame, statuesque face, and soft lips. Lips that are parted, eyes that are wide, perfect breasts that heave as she gasps, her eyes darting from Nathan to me. Nathan to me. Her eyes grow wet, the dewy effect only making her more fucking beautiful.
* * *
“I’m so … sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t think … I should have knocked …” She lifts a shaky hand to her mouth, and turns, stepping toward the hall before looking back, anguish filling her face, and then she slumps. Eyes closing, knees collapsing, crumples to the floor, in the most graceful faint I have ever seen. Nathan jumps, finally in motion, rushing to her side, kneeling there at the same time that Mark appears in the doorway, his face tight.
* * *
“Did someone …” His voice fails when he takes in the situation, his eyes zeroing in on the limp blonde, sinking to his knees, his hand grabbing hers.
* * *
I leave the three of them in the large master, sneaking past their threesome and to the opposite side of the house. Nathan, with his beautifully nude, hard body, bending over her and uttering soft words of love. Mark, elevating her feet, his figure running to the kitchen for a glass of water. Cecile, in the middle of it all, her beautiful features slack, breathing soft, blonde hair tangled around Nathan’s fingers.
* * *
I enter my new room, walk naked to the bed, and sink onto it. My world zeroes in on that image, her one easy reentry into a life that I had just made my own.
* * *
I don’t think there are enough words to describe how much I hate that bitch.
* * *
It was cruel for my mind to ever convince my heart that I had a chance. Of course she came back. Who wouldn’t? But then again, who would ever leave Nathan to begin with? I tell myself that I didn’t have enough time—that if I had longer, a few years, I might have been able to wrangle his heart, erase her memory, make him my own.
* * *
But it hasn’t been long enough. And with her here … I know what is coming. I know it despite the heated words I hear from my side of the house. I know without looking, without waiting, what Nathan will do. He loves her in a way that I can only dream for. Unconditionally, the hold she has on his heart tight and complete. He lives for her, works for her, breathes for her, loves for her. There is no one else in his world, no room for anyone else in his heart. I should have known, should have stopped my heart from skipping down fairytale lane, planting expectations, hopes and dreams that will never receive any nourishment.
* * *
I open Drew’s old closet, and step in, looking through my racks of clothes and wonder what to take—what I have a right to. She won’t want my clothes, won’t wear the hand-me-downs. But she's a woman. We are possessive, territorial. I can’t see her sitting by and watching me cart a fortune of clothes out the front door.
* * *
I grab a small Vuitton duffel and ignore the designer threads, throwing a few pairs of jeans and five or six of my favorite tops inside, dressing in something similar, lacing up tennis shoes and pulling my hair into a ponytail. I am zipping up my makeup bag, examining a Tag Heuer watch that Nathan gave me, when darkness blankets the room, a large form blocking the sunlight.
* * *
“I like you better naked.” There is a smile in his voice. A fucking smile, at a time when my heart is hanging by threads in my chest.
* * *
I force my own lips to curve, command my voice to be light. “Most men do.”
* * *
He steps inside, walking over to me. I want to tell him to stop. I try and force my legs to back away, my head to turn, but I can't. I just stand there, helpless, and wait for more heartbreak. He sighs, leaning forward and resting his forehead against mine, exhaling a slow, long breath of … what? Frustration? Anguish? A hopeful little voice in my head adds regret to the list of improbable translations.
* * *
He pulls back, lifting his chin and planting a soft kiss on my forehead, holding the contact for a heartbeat longer than necessary, my heart rising and soaring on the pipe dream of what he might say.
* * *
“I don’t know what to say,” he says softly. “I don’t want you to leave.”
* * *
Hope, a thin painful strand of it, glows.
* * *
“It doesn’t seem fair to you.”