Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
I park several blocks away and walk, keeping my head down, baseball cap pulled low. It’s a beautiful park, with piers stretching into the harbor and a famous pineapple fountain that graces half the postcards in the city. Joggers pass by. Dog-walkers herd their pack. A few tourists pose for photos.
There’s an empty park bench, which is perfect for me. I sit and look out over the water, letting the ebb and flow of the tide calm me. I’m torn on what I want to happen. Yesterday, I planned to knock on the front door and tell her it’s over. But now, the idea of seeing her has my heart racing with anticipation.
For fifteen minutes, I stare out at the water. Watching the boats trolling by. I probably should’ve called first, but doing so would’ve given her an easy out. Showing up is the way to go. Maybe I should wait until after the show. Maybe I should just leave it alone. It’s not like we’ve been communicating this entire time. Will she really notice a difference?
It’s now or never.
I stand and head toward my car, passing the fountain once again.
And then I see her.
She’s standing there, next to the fountain, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, wisps escaping around her face. She’s wearing white linen pants and a blue tank top, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in years. More at home.
My heart catches painfully in my chest. So familiar yet so distant at the same time.
I’m about to call her name when someone approaches her. A man, tall with broad shoulders and a confident stride. He’s carrying two to-go cups, and when he reaches her, she accepts one of the cups with a smile I recognize.
That smile used to be for me.
He leans in and kisses her. Not a friendly peck. A real kiss. The kind that speaks of comfort and familiarity.
And Nola kisses him back.
For a moment, I’m frozen.
I consider turning around. Walking away. Pretending I never saw this.
But I’ve come too far for that.
So I wait until they part, until they’re sitting side by side on the bench, until I can trust my voice not to shake.
And then I approach.
Nola sees me first. Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. The man beside her notices her reaction and turns to look at me, confusion clear on his face.
“Quinn?” Nola stands, coffee forgotten on the bench. “What are you doing here?”
“Tour stop,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Thought I’d take you up on that offer to call when I was in town.”
Her face flushes, and I hate that I still notice how pretty she looks when color rises to her cheeks.
“I . . .” she starts, then glances at the man beside her, who has also risen. “This is Daniel. Daniel, this is Quinn.”
Daniel studies me for a moment, then extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The absurdity of this moment, shaking hands with the man who’s now kissing my fiancée—no make that my ex-fiancée—isn’t lost on me. But I take his hand anyway. Holding it for longer than necessary so I can study him. He’s older, with salt and pepper hair near his ears. He doesn’t dress like me and looks exactly like the prim and proper man her parents want her with.
“Daniel is my . . .” She looks at him for the answer. He nods, as if giving her the permission to tell me he’s her boyfriend. “He’s my professor,” Nola says quickly, as if that explains everything.
It only takes a matter of seconds for every single excuse to flood back into my mind, and then it hits me. I’ve seen this guy before when I’ve picked her up from study sessions. “I see.”
“Quinn.” She reaches for me.
I step back, away from her hand.
Daniel looks between us, sensing the unspoken tension. “I should give you two a minute,” he says, squeezing Nola’s shoulder. “I’ll be by the water when you’re ready.”
He walks away, and suddenly it’s just us. Nola and Quinn. Quinn and Nola. The way it was supposed to be.
Except it isn’t anymore.
“You could have called,” she says softly.
“You could’ve told the damn truth. How long have you been sleeping with your professor?”
She looks at me with unshed tears. There isn’t an urge to pull her into my arms, to touch her, to comfort her. The only thing I want to do is get the fuck out of there and put her behind me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what part?” I ask. “The part where I brought you into my family? Trusted you? Paid for everything for you? Including the tuition where you screwed your professor?” I pointed toward the water. “Isn’t that against the rules?”
She says nothing.
“How long?”
Nola shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It actually does, Eleanora. Everything matters.”