The Gingerbread House
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The Gingerbread House
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Este título utiliza narración de voz virtual
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Her gaze settled on his face again, her china-blue eyes wide with shock, before she reached for the pile of business cards resting on the desk between them. She took one, read it, and then returned it. The only change in her face was her color. She’d paled. Her freckles stood out in stark contrast to the white of her flawless skin.
“You’ve changed your last name.” It wasn’t a question.
“Can you blame me?”
“No.”
When he’d first started writing the script, he’d imagined the different ways she might react to his pet project.
Project? He’d built a shrine to the one moment in time that had driven a wedge so completely and thoroughly between them. The agony of the memory made him catch his breath every time he thought about it.
He’d anticipated her initial hostility, and then, later, tears of regret that they’d lost touch. However, shadows shifted through her blue eyes. Her remote and stony coldness hadn’t been on the list of probabilities. The Kizzy he’d known never reacted with anything less than raw emotion.
Guess things changed.
“Well, Dr. Jared Oath,” she said in a tone he’d heard only once before—and back then it’d felt like a punch in the gut. “Aren’t you going to give me a tour of your theatre?”