Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
At least I’m getting my water but that’s only because I set an hourly alarm on my phone to remind me to drink. I reasoned that this alarm would also prod me to eat as well, but so far that hasn’t worked. I’ll dutifully pick up my water bottle when it goes off and take several swallows, but if I’m in the middle of something, I find myself saying, “You’ll make yourself a sandwich after you finish this one thing.”
Three hours later, I find I haven’t eaten and my stomach is threatening to eat itself.
I move to the bottom of the staircase and call up. “Travis… you ready for lunch?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Trav,” I yell louder.
Nothing.
With a sigh, I trudge up the stairs, which is steeply inclined, a trademark of these row houses built in the early 1900s. The steps creak and groan, something that took a little getting used to when we moved in. It was a bit of a culture shock going from our custom-built home to this little two-story row house with an unfinished basement but I’ve come to appreciate its charm.
Travis’s bedroom is the first door on the right and there’s a whiteboard attached to the outside that, written in big, block letters, reads DO NOT DISTURB.
I ignore the dire warning and rap my knuckles against the cheap, pressed-wood door before opening it a bit to peek in.
Travis has his headphones on and he’s playing a video game. I step inside and he catches me from the corner of his eye. Taking off the headphones, he says, “What’s up?”
“I’m going to make lunch. Since I missed breakfast and you only had a bowl of cereal, I was thinking French toast with bacon. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” he says. “Just yell when it’s done.”
“Okay,” I say with a smile.
Travis spent all morning playing out in the fresh snow that fell overnight. It was only about three inches total but enough that Travis and I were able to build a respectable snowman in the backyard.
In the kitchen, I take out the loaf of fresh brioche and put it on the cutting board. I’m searching for my serrated bread knife when my phone dings with an incoming text. I reach in my back pocket and see it’s from Camden, which weirdly causes a rush of giddiness.
Do you have a snow shovel I can borrow?
My brows knit as I try to parcel out why in the world he’d want to borrow a snow shovel from me. I thought he lived in a downtown condo but I could be mistaken. Maybe he bought a house. If that’s the case, why wouldn’t he just go buy one?
I text back. Of course. Then add a smiling face emoji.
The bubble appears and his reply is swift. Where is it?
Leaning my hip against the counter, I ponder what in the hell Camden is up to. Nothing comes to mind, so I simply ask, Why?
I feel like I’ve been zapped with electricity when he replies Because I’m on your front porch and I thought I’d shovel the snow off for you.
Scrambling for the front door, I toss my phone on the kitchen table as I pass by. Sure enough, I see a hulking figure through the glass panes frosted with ice. I swing the door open and find Camden there grinning at me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask with wide-eyed surprise.
“I’m going to shovel the snow off your steps and stoop. It’s a hazard and you could slip and break your neck.”
I blink at him. “We don’t use the front door. We come in through the back.”
“That may be true, but I’ll bet you have back steps that need shoveling, right? Plus you have a rear alley garage and I bet there’s snow that needs to be cleared away from the door so you can pull out tomorrow. So I’ll get that done too.”
“Camden,” I exclaim, positively overwhelmed that he would be so kind as to think to help me like this. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense,” he says and steps over the threshold, forcing me back a few steps. He closes the door and looks down at his boots, caked with snow that’s melting on my rug, then back to me with a chastened look. “Sorry about that… I would have stomped off the snow first, but since there was snow right up to the door, it was kind of hard.”
I snort and shake my head. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m determined,” he retorts. “Where’s the shovel?”
“In the garage,” I say, throwing a thumb over my shoulder toward the back door in the kitchen. It leads out into a small fenced-in backyard that sits between the house and the freestanding garage off the back alley.
“Perfect.” He smiles, movie-star white, straight teeth that have never known the misery of a slap shot to the face.