Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
The living space was to the left of the kitchen was all her too. With a tufted cream couch and teal accent chairs surrounding an oversized white coffee table, and all wrapping around a large fireplace, above which she had a giant, ornate mirror. On the mantle, her prized collection of snowglobes. The one I got her in Russia right beside all the others.
No TV.
There were a few books on the coffee table - a mix of recent chart-toppers and true crime.
The whole space even smelled of her. Of the perfume that clung to her skin. Light and sweet, not a scent you would expect from her, making me wonder if there was a story behind it. There was always a story behind all her little bits. It made a black hole start in my chest at the idea that I wouldn't get to know them all.
"Jules?" I called again, turning the corner behind the living room to head down a hall lined with bulky white frames around pictures of her family.
There were three doors in all. Two beds and a bath, I imagined.
It was standing there that I finally heard something.
Mumbling.
Low, female mumbling.
Never knowing Jules to be a mumbler, I made my way toward the sound with brows drawn low, pushing open the door at the end of the hall, finding the master bedroom.
Again, all her.
The dove gray walls, the king-sized bed with a tufted white headboard, white comforter, white pillows, white nightstands and dresser. The lamps on either side of the bed were oversized, glass, with crystals dangling to catch the light.
There was a vanity on the free wall, something antique, making me wonder if it had belonged to her grandmother who had passed the winter before, just repainted white to match her taste. A silver tray sat atop, the only space in the entire apartment that I had seen so far that was cluttered. Littered with countless bits of makeup, brushes, and other various things I didn't recognize.
The mumbling was louder, coming from the sole door beside the dresser, the top of which was lined with candles and flowers.
Still... no TV.
But as I got closer, I saw a small dock hidden behind a white flower arrangement. Because Jules might not have watched TV, but she was a big music fan.
The closet door was open, revealing an oversized space lined with sturdy built-ins with carefully organized clothing, shoe, and handbag selections.
And then there she was.
The mumbler.
Jules.
Her back was to me, her body kneeling down in a back corner of the closet.
She was in her wedding dress.
What the hell was she doing in her wedding dress, digging around in her closet, talking to herself like a crazy person?
"Where is it? Where the fuck is it?"
My lips turned up without me even realizing. Because, while she was completely surrounded by men - and women - who cussed like sailors, I was pretty sure I had never heard her curse.
Unless an occasional 'hell' or 'damn' counted. Which they didn't.
She certainly never dropped f-bombs like a pro like she had just now, with the savagery that came with practice.
"Hey, Jules..." I tried again.
"Something. There has to be something."
Her voice had hitched.
I hadn't imagined that.
It had hitched.
Like she was crying.
Crying.
There was no stopping the little kick to my gut at the idea.
Because this woman could handle any untold amounts of pressure at work without so much as getting snippy with any of us or the clients. Save for maybe Gunner. But that was their own issue.
Nothing made her break her stride, made her lose her cool.
I certainly never saw the woman get teary-eyed, let alone cry.
If that bastard hurt her...
"Jules," I tried again, moving forward, pressing my hand down onto her shoulder.
She didn't start.
She didn't even seem to notice as she continued rifling through a box, throwing various items to the side, her perfectly manicured hands feeling the pockets of clothing items before tossing them.
Male clothing items.
Gary's clothing items.
"Jules, honey, I'm gonna need you to look at me," I demanded, kneeling down beside her, reaching to close my hand around her pale arm, giving it a small tug, forcing her to notice me through her little, well, mental breakdown.
That seemed to get through.
Her hands stilled while holding a pair of slacks, the fingers long, fine-boned, the nails perfectly manicured a light pink, her giant diamond gleaming on the fourth finger of her left hand. A finger that should have had another band with it by now.
A hard breath shuddered out of her body, her shoulders falling, her head turning.
Black mascara was smeared under her eyes, dried ribbons of it down her cheeks.
She'd been crying.
Not just a little bit, either.
Not judging by the way the mascara had slipped off her chin to drop onto the champagne color of her wedding dress.
I hadn't looked at it.