Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Donovan didn’t just steal my money; he stole my faith in love.
“You’ve barely touched your drink.” The bartender checks on me. “Can I make you something else?”
I perk up. “No, no. The drink is fine. I’m just savoring it.”
It may be strange, but I want to remember. I need a hit of the sweetness to remind me of the bitter because some days I forget. Every once in a while, there are little pockets of the day when I find myself wistful, nostalgic for the good times.
Reminiscing like this helps me remember the good times were all for show.
“You sure?” He arches a brow like he doesn’t buy it.
No one savors cheap whiskey.
“Yeah.” I offer a gentle and reassuring nod, opting not to explain. I think of Florence’s advice earlier—that everyone needs to keep a little something for themselves.
“What the hell . . .” The bartender squints across the room, peering out the floor-to-ceiling windows. “That’s not . . . is someone actually lying in the street right now?”
I follow his gaze.
Sure enough, a man is lying on his back in the middle of Main Street in the pouring rain.
All around us, patrons are drinking and chatting and lost in their own little worlds. The two of us are the only ones witnessing this maniac.
“Do you have an umbrella?” I ask.
“You’re not seriously going out there, are you?” The bartender scoffs.
“He’s going to get run over by a car.” I slide off my barstool. Umbrella or not, I refuse to let someone die on my watch.
I don’t wait for his response—clearly time is of the essence here.
Trotting to the front door, I jerk it open and burst onto the sidewalk, loping between cars until I get to the middle of the street. With my heart in my teeth, I’m bracing for the worst—fully expecting to find a delusional psychopath or an unconscious heart attack victim.
Only the man in the street is neither of those things.
“Lachlan?” I ask, the rain dousing me in angry sheets.
He opens his eyes, peering up at me. The glow of streetlights paints his handsome face, and I’m taken aback all over again by how much he resembles Donovan.
“You trying to get hit by a car or what?” Water droplets bounce from my lips with each word.
He slips his hands behind his head and shrugs his shoulders into the hard ground, as if to show me he’s settling in and not going anywhere.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to me,” he says.
“I don’t know if you’re trying to be charming, but this isn’t cute. Seriously. Get up.” I wave my hands, motioning for him to move.
The stubborn jerk remains.
“Come on. I’m not joking.” I reach for him, offering a hand.
His gaze flicks to my outstretched palm, then squints back to the sky. The drops of water that land in his thick lashes don’t faze him in the slightest.
Headlights beam bright in the distance—three blocks away if I had to guess. They stop at a red light, buying us a few extra seconds.
“Come on. There’s a car,” I say. “You have to get up.”
After the year I’ve had, I’m not about to stand here and witness a man get run over in the street—even if he is a bona fide jackass.
“They’ll go around,” he says, unbothered.
The light flicks to green.
“What if they don’t?” I ask.
He says nothing, only watches me.
“I really need you to get up,” I say.
He laughs through his nose. “You need me to get up?”
“Yes. I need you to get up,” I echo.
“I need a lot of things, but I don’t go demanding them from perfect strangers who owe me nothing.”
“Fair enough.” My clothes are soaked, adhering to my skin like wet glue, and a shiver runs through me. “I would like to know if you’re really Donovan’s brother. And if you are, then I would also like to know why he never told me about you.”
“I’m sure you would like to know those things.” His mouth forms a tight smirk.
The car lays on their horn. I motion for them to go around, which they do—thank goodness.
Donovan doesn’t so much as flinch as they pass.
“Two days ago you slammed a door in my face,” he muses. “Now you’re begging for favors. Funny how things change when you’re the one who wants something. Are you always this opportunistic?”
My jaw falls. “Opportunistic? I’m trying to save your life.”
“No one asked you to.”
I’m making zero headway with him, and given the fact that I know nothing about this man, I’m not sure where to go from here to get through to him.
“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot.” I cross my fingers that an apology will smooth things over—a last-ditch attempt. “You caught me off guard, and you just showed up at my house saying it belonged to you. I was defensive, and I’m sorry.”