Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
My hand tightened around my fork as he wandered off, still looking at her over his shoulder. His eyes met my hard gaze and he quickly looked away. Sarah glanced back down at her plate, her pretty cheeks still pink.
“Lord, you don’t half blush, do you,” I muttered, annoyed.
She shot me a vulnerable look that made me feel like a bastard before she took a long gulp of her cold water as if to cool her cheeks. Unfortunately, my shitty commentary only made her blush harder.
I bent my head toward her, catching her gaze, and asked her more gently, “How can someone as intelligent as you, someone who understands human emotions and psychology as well as you, someone whose writing is fierce with confidence, be so shy?”
Her stunning eyes widened ever so slightly. “I—I don’t think those things necessarily go hand in hand, anyway.”
“Yes, perhaps. But there must be a reason a grown woman is as shy as you are?”
“Are you mocking me?” she asked, quietly dignified in her wariness.
“No,” I answered sincerely for once. “I’m genuinely curious. Do you even know why you’re so shy? Especially of men.” I gestured toward where the tourist now sat at the counter.
Sarah studied me for what seemed like too long. Then, “I’ll tell you why I am the way I am if you tell me something real about yourself. And not something I could find out if I googled you.”
The challenge made me tense, all the muscles in my body locking. I glowered at my meal. Something real she couldn’t learn from Google? The only real things about me existed in the past.
“Or not,” she said so quietly, it was almost a whisper.
But damn it, I was just curious enough about her to give her something. “I held my mother’s hand while she died,” I offered bluntly.
Shocked at what I’d revealed, I imagine I gaped at her like she’d said the words. Hating the pity in her eyes, I shrugged, tone bland, “Is that the kind of thing you were looking for?”
Her gaze washed over my face in understanding, and I wanted to lash out at her for it. To my relief, she didn’t offer me a useless sorry or sympathy.
“My mum was an addict,” she confessed softly instead. “It started with alcohol and then eventually whatever she could get her hands on. The substance abuse turned her into someone else. I … She … she abused me as well.” She lowered her gaze, fiddling with her fork. “Emotionally and verbally. She … she didn’t have the nicest boyfriends either,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
Sharp pain sliced up my palm.
I glanced down to realize I’d gripped the small table too hard and there was a splinter sticking out of my skin. I pulled it out and returned my attention to Sarah.
Her gaze was filled with so much hurt, I wanted to run from it. Yet I forced myself to stay. “When the one person who’s supposed to love you, to think the sun shines from your arse, continually tells you that you’re stupid, worthless, that you ruined their life … you start to buy into it.”
“And where was your father in all this?” I bit out, guilt eating at me.
“He died in a farming accident when I was a baby. He was Grandpa’s son. Mum took me away from the farm after he was killed. But I stayed with my grandparents during the summers. Eventually, when I was twelve, things got so bad that I called Grandpa. He contacted social services and after a bit of time, my grandparents were given custody. They tried hard to undo what she’d done, but her words were tattooed on my brain. Every time I thought of asking a boy out or going to uni or going for a job I really wanted, I’d hear her voice in my head telling me that I couldn’t. That the boy wouldn’t want me, that I wasn’t smart enough for uni, or good enough for the job.”
“Jesus fuck,” I muttered, horrified.
“It took everything I had to publish the first Juno McLeod book. I’d been writing the series for years and Grandpa knew about it. When Jared found out, he hounded me until I decided to self-publish it. It was the success of the series that made me start to realize my mum was wrong about me. That was solidified when a publisher, a big publisher, wanted the print rights. Then Grandpa … not long before he died, he sat me down and told me he was worried about me. That he wanted me to go out and live. Really live.” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “When he died, I decided I owed him to try. To go after what I want.”
Understanding dawned. “Which is why you came to my room to ask me to adapt the book?” And I’d treated her like an insignificant simpleton.