Page 84 of Unspoken Words
I groaned. “Whatever.”
Chris slouched back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not the one hiding in Darwin with bleached hair,” he added as if that was a logical explanation.
“That’s just stupid.”
“And I’m not the one who’s a stick in the mud and miserable.”
“I’m not a stick in the mud. And I’m certainly not miserable.”
“You’ve lost your Ellie spark,” he said, voice softer, almost sad.
I shrugged. “Maybe I have. But that’s not Byron’s fault.”
“Fair enough. But if he hasn’t been able to bring back your spark in the two years you’ve been together, then he’s not going to.”
I knew what Chris was saying was true, but people changed, sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad, and sometimes for the in between. And that’s where I placed my own transition—in the middle. Sure, I no longer burned bright. But I was stronger, wiser, and much less naïve.
Letting go of the pole I’d clamped my hands around, I snuggled into my brother’s side. “I’m still me, Chris. Just less colourful.”
A sound similar to thunder cracked above us, and the next thing I knew we were both on the ground, the swing no longer swinging, support poles narrowly missing our heads as they fell beside us.
“My groin,” he groaned.
All I could do was laugh, and laugh. And despite the pain in my coccyx bone intermittently breaking my giggles in the form of ‘ouch’ and ‘ow’, it was the most I’d laughed in a very long time.
*
My arse was stillsorefrom the night before as I sat waiting with sweat-dampened palms at Sony Records to meet Saxon Reed. In the centre of the brightly lit room was a spotted circular sofa, which reminded me of a giant sprinkled donut—and probably the comfier choice of seat. Stark white walls were covered with framed records and photos of bands and artists performing live at various venues, and there was a quirky receptionist seated behind a mirrored counter separating the waiting area from a frosted glass wall, blurred silhouettes bustling about behind it.
I blew out a sharp breath and tried to remember the handful of questions I’d written in my notebook on the plane the day before, questions regarding copyright, royalties, timeframe, and artistic freedom.
“Ms Mitchell.”
Snapping my head up, my eyes landed on a tall, slim, blond man, buttoning his perfectly tailored navy suit jacket as he strode toward me.
“I’m Jackson Kent,” he said, holding out his slender hand. “We spoke on the phone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
My legs trembled just slightly as I stood and accepted his hand. “Hi. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, too. And please, call me Ellie.”
“Ellie it is.” He gestured to where he’d just come from. “If you’d like to follow me, Saxon is very keen to meet you.”
“Excellent! I’m very keen to meet him as well.”
Jackson led me through the frosted glass door behind the reception counter and down a frosted glass-lined hall to yet another frosted glass door. It was all very arctic, which possibly explained the chill travelling up my spine when he turned the handle and held the door open for me. “Ladies first.”
I smiled and said, “thank you” but felt as if I were entering an igloo palace, my feet frozen in place when I discovered who was at the head of the conference table.
“Connor,” I breathed out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ellie
“Hi, Ellie.” He stood upand pushed his chair back.
I shook my head. “You’re Saxon Reed?”
Connor took a step toward me, so I raised my hand in warning. “Oh no. No, no. NO!”
