Read Online Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) by Kate Canterbary - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Canterbary
Ads: Link
about her favorite New York hole-in-the-wall music venues. She didn't talk about her Juilliard years often, and I liked hearing her account of these events without the shadow of her ex-husband looming large. I hated the guy for the way he threw Tiel away when he was done with her, but based on what I knew of her family, it was clear he wasn't the only one.
When we crossed into New Jersey, Tiel's stories slowed, and she turned her attention to commenting on Spotify playlists. They all got the Goldilocks treatment—too long, too short, too boring, too random—but I loved her noise. She viewed the world through a lens that fascinated and confused me, and I was crazy for it. I wanted to know everything, all of her.
After we passed Newark, she stopped talking altogether. She twisted her fingers in her necklaces as she stared out the window, and she was changing before my eyes.
Her near-constant tapping, swaying, and humming along with the music shifted to erratic finger-drumming. The bright, easy smile that was never far from her face transformed into a hard line, and her warmth dimmed by degrees.
Hours separated us from visiting Tiel's parents tomorrow, and I was hoping the hotel I'd chosen had an above-average selection of adult entertainment. I wasn't about to let this anxiety claim her, not when I could throw her legs over my shoulders and fuck the stress right out of her while she watched some high-quality girl-on-girl.
And it wasn't like that would be a hardship for me to endure, either.
----
T iel's mother held the wine bottle at an arm's length and peered at the label as if it was a foreign object.
"That's so…nice," she murmured before glancing up at us. "Is this popular in Boston?"
"Yes, Mom, it's a very cosmopolitan wine," Tiel said dryly, "but you're a fan of red wine. I think you'll like this."
"Well, I don't drink nearly as much as you do," she said, her forced smile wavering into a grimace. "We'll save it for a special occasion."
Two things were noteworthy.
One, Mrs. Desai could throw shade at a sunflower. Her expression upon opening the door was a mixture of contempt and grudging acceptance, as if she'd lost a bet on whether we'd show up, and it hadn't gotten any better.
Two, we'd been clustered in the doorway for fifteen fucking uncomfortable minutes. There was a stiff embrace between Tiel and her mother followed by a handshake for me, and then long, silent moments where she stared at us with a smile so fake it belonged on a Botox ad. It was unclear whether we'd be invited in past the foyer.
In the absence of anything else to discuss, Tiel drew her mother's attention to the gift basket I was still clutching.
"Yeah, maybe we could put this down," Tiel said, glancing at the basket.
She was wearing a dark green wrap dress with a hot pink quatrefoil print from a legendary designer, one that I'd insisted on purchasing when she helped me pick out new Oxford shirts and ties last month. It did amazing things for her body, and she knew it, too. She wasn't comfortable with me spending money on her—that needed to change real soon—but she liked to call this her power dress. It was the one that made her feel every ounce of the goddess she was, and I knew she was wearing it because she required that boost today.
But based on Mrs. Desai's expression, Tiel might as well have been wearing a potato sack.
I didn't understand how anyone could look at her without being bowled over by her untamed, unabashed beauty. Sure, she was wearing four amber necklaces and silver mermaid earrings, but that was Tiel and she made it look damn good.
"Oh, hello! Tiel!" A barrel-chested man came around the corner, a dish towel draped over his shoulder, and held his arms out. He brought Tiel in for a firm hug, and then extended his hand to me. "You must be Sam."
We shook, and he insisted that I call him Vikram, and things didn't seem too bad.
Then, a gaggle of women descended upon us. They all bore a striking resemblance to
When we crossed into New Jersey, Tiel's stories slowed, and she turned her attention to commenting on Spotify playlists. They all got the Goldilocks treatment—too long, too short, too boring, too random—but I loved her noise. She viewed the world through a lens that fascinated and confused me, and I was crazy for it. I wanted to know everything, all of her.
After we passed Newark, she stopped talking altogether. She twisted her fingers in her necklaces as she stared out the window, and she was changing before my eyes.
Her near-constant tapping, swaying, and humming along with the music shifted to erratic finger-drumming. The bright, easy smile that was never far from her face transformed into a hard line, and her warmth dimmed by degrees.
Hours separated us from visiting Tiel's parents tomorrow, and I was hoping the hotel I'd chosen had an above-average selection of adult entertainment. I wasn't about to let this anxiety claim her, not when I could throw her legs over my shoulders and fuck the stress right out of her while she watched some high-quality girl-on-girl.
And it wasn't like that would be a hardship for me to endure, either.
----
T iel's mother held the wine bottle at an arm's length and peered at the label as if it was a foreign object.
"That's so…nice," she murmured before glancing up at us. "Is this popular in Boston?"
"Yes, Mom, it's a very cosmopolitan wine," Tiel said dryly, "but you're a fan of red wine. I think you'll like this."
"Well, I don't drink nearly as much as you do," she said, her forced smile wavering into a grimace. "We'll save it for a special occasion."
Two things were noteworthy.
One, Mrs. Desai could throw shade at a sunflower. Her expression upon opening the door was a mixture of contempt and grudging acceptance, as if she'd lost a bet on whether we'd show up, and it hadn't gotten any better.
Two, we'd been clustered in the doorway for fifteen fucking uncomfortable minutes. There was a stiff embrace between Tiel and her mother followed by a handshake for me, and then long, silent moments where she stared at us with a smile so fake it belonged on a Botox ad. It was unclear whether we'd be invited in past the foyer.
In the absence of anything else to discuss, Tiel drew her mother's attention to the gift basket I was still clutching.
"Yeah, maybe we could put this down," Tiel said, glancing at the basket.
She was wearing a dark green wrap dress with a hot pink quatrefoil print from a legendary designer, one that I'd insisted on purchasing when she helped me pick out new Oxford shirts and ties last month. It did amazing things for her body, and she knew it, too. She wasn't comfortable with me spending money on her—that needed to change real soon—but she liked to call this her power dress. It was the one that made her feel every ounce of the goddess she was, and I knew she was wearing it because she required that boost today.
But based on Mrs. Desai's expression, Tiel might as well have been wearing a potato sack.
I didn't understand how anyone could look at her without being bowled over by her untamed, unabashed beauty. Sure, she was wearing four amber necklaces and silver mermaid earrings, but that was Tiel and she made it look damn good.
"Oh, hello! Tiel!" A barrel-chested man came around the corner, a dish towel draped over his shoulder, and held his arms out. He brought Tiel in for a firm hug, and then extended his hand to me. "You must be Sam."
We shook, and he insisted that I call him Vikram, and things didn't seem too bad.
Then, a gaggle of women descended upon us. They all bore a striking resemblance to
Similar Books
