“Now that that’s settled,” Ava said. “My white shorts. Do you know where they are Flora?”
“Let’s check the laundry room. I think I dried them this morning.”
Completely unwilling to meet Cole’s stare, I kept my eyes on my plate as they swept out of the kitchen. But he was staring at me. I could feel it. Just like I could feel his smile of triumph without seeing it.
Why the hell he wanted to torture me, I had no idea. My one hope was that he didn’t really and truly want to readJane Eyreto me.
I took a bite of my sandwich, which now tasted like sawdust, and thought that one over. He’d just gotten back from a spring break trip. Surely, he had friends in town he wanted to see or girls he wanted to date. He wouldn’t seriously be ready to burn hours of his vacation on a nineteenth-century novel.
With that hope stoking me, I swallowed the dry bite that had seemed to swell in my mouth. Maybe I could talk Alberta into helping me. She wasn’t much for books either, but she was my best friend. And beyond that, maybe I could barter jewelry with her.
I forced myself to look up at Cole. “You don’t have to do this,” I murmured softly so Mama and Ava couldn’t hear. “I’m sure you have better things going on today.”
Cole’s smile opened to reveal white teeth that contrasted with his golden-brown tan. He shook his head. “Nope, it’ll be fun.”
Who was this person? I’d avoided Cole for two years, and now I couldn’t figure out his motive. Cole never did anything without a reason — a reason that helped him, and I was a little terrified that I couldn’t puzzle him out.
Then his brow crimped, and his smile held, making him look wicked. “Unless you just want me to tell you how it ends and save us both the trouble.”
“No!” I practically shouted, and he burst out laughing.
A growl crawled up my throat.
He laughed harder and shook his head. “I won’t do that.”
“You’d better not,” I said, fuming. Then, unable to stay there a minute longer, I took my plate to the trash, grabbed my book, and headed for the back door.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said, still clearly amused.
I only grunted a reply and left.
Torturing me seemed to be Cole Whitehurst’s new favorite thing.
Chapter 8
ELISE
“What was that for?” Cole asked, yanking me out of Jane Eyre’s narrative.
I frowned at him. “What was what for?”
The left side of his mouth turned up. “You sighed. Are you bored?” He gave a shrug. “It’s pretty boring.”
My eyebrows leapt. “It isnotboring,” I defended, clutching the arms of my lounger. “I was sighing with relief. Thank God, she left that missionary. I was worried she’d marry him.” Jane was finally headed back to Thornfield where she belonged. That was worth a sigh of relief.
For the first few minutes outside with Cole, self-consciousness kept me from slipping back into the story as he read. But when Jane heard Mr. Rochester’s voice calling to her in the night, I’d immediately tuned in.
How could he say it was boring?
“Keep reading,” I ordered.
Cole made a noise in his throat that sounded like a snort or a swallowed laugh, but he kept his smile benign. He picked back up on Jane’s thirty-six-hour coach ride. And, yeah, that part might have been a little boring. Or maybe I was just ready for her to get back to Thornfield.
Whatever it was, my eyes drifted over the still surface of the pool, and I found myself listening to the sound of Cole Whitehurst’s voice. ReadingJane Eyre,he sounded nothing like himself. Nothing like Ava’s older brother who had taunted me and called me names and told me he couldn’t be bothered to help me.
His voice was rich and not exactly smooth. It had a rumble to it, like an idling car engine. Or maybe it was a purr. I enjoyed the way it paired with Jane’s story, so serious and poetic. Of course, Charlotte Bronte’s words were far better than anything Cole had ever said to me. Maybe I would have liked his voice a lot sooner if he’d ever actually said something nice before.
My attention jolted back into the novel when I learned that Jane found Thornfield in ruins, and I listened, transfixed, combing the details for any sign of Mr. Rochester as Cole read. I gasped when the innkeeper spoke of his “late” master. But then I held my breath as Cole read the story of the fire. The loss of Edward Rochester’s hand and eyes.
