Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
The leaves of the thick oak tree out front rustle in the breeze. Crickets chirp, and the streetlights come on. It’s a night like any other, but there’s also something different in the air: something I can’t place my finger on.
The truth of the matter is that I can hem and haw and debate this all I want, but at the end of the day, his offer is the best chance I have at saving this house and walking away with enough money to start the next phase of my life—whatever that may be.
“Give me the weekend,” he says, perhaps sensing my hesitation.
“Like a trial?”
“Exactly. I’ll be here at eight a.m. tomorrow. We’ll work on the house for the next couple of days. You can decide after that.”
I drag in a humid summer breath and let it go.
It’s not a terribly unreasonable idea, all things considered.
“Fine,” I say after a brief pause. I don’t want to seem too eager.
Lachlan’s mouth arches into a perfect smile—and for a second, he doesn’t seem so intimidating . . . or so infuriatingly determined.
“Get a good night’s rest, Anneliese,” he says before he goes, taking a second to rap his knuckle against a saggy plank of siding on the porch wall. “We’ve got a busy couple of days ahead of us.”
I close the door behind him, resting my back against the foyer wall and replaying our surreal conversation on a loop in my head.
I only hope I don’t live to regret this.
TEN
LACHLAN
natsukashii (adj.) suddenly, euphorically nostalgic
“Hi, so . . . yeah,” Anneliese says Saturday morning when she answers the door. “I guess we’re doing this.”
She’s wearing a faded Michigan State T-shirt. The bright green makes her eyes especially blue. I catch myself getting lost in them for a split second; then I snap the hell out of it.
She’s a beautiful woman, no question.
And there’s a fierce edge to her that I wasn’t expecting given my brother’s penchant for the naive types.
But I’m not here to steal that bastard’s girl—as much as I would love to hold that over him. It’s not the same when he’s rotting in the ground. Plus I’ve got enough respect for myself that I have no desire to play second fiddle.
I place my leather duffel bag by the front door.
The last time I set foot inside this place, I was eighteen. A fresh high school graduate. I thought I knew everything about everything, and I was on a mission to prove it. I left with a backpack and two middle fingers to the world and never looked back.
My father didn’t try to stop me. In fact, he stood by and watched me pack without so much as a word. Donovan was just getting home from a date with Berlin when he saw me throw my things in the trunk of my car. I’ll never forget the wild look in his eyes when he realized I was leaving for good.
That was the thing about my brother—he only needed me around because it gave him the upper hand. Without me, he couldn’t shine. Being the golden child wasn’t as glorious for him when he couldn’t rub my face in it.
“You okay?” Anneliese asks.
I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, drowning in the heaviness of ancient thoughts.
“You look . . . really angry,” she says carefully.
I drag in a loaded breath and let it go.
I’m going to have to let a lot of shit go if I’m going to stomach the next six months in this town.
“Nah. I’m good.” I glance to the left, toward the living room where my mother used to read me stories by the glow of the fireplace.
For nine short years of my life, I had that warm, fuzzy, traditional childhood. After my mother passed, my life became somewhat of a Dickensian tragedy.
“I thought you could stay in the blue room,” she says. “The one next to the primary bedroom. The other rooms . . . well, one’s not furnished, and the other two are being used for storage. One of those is Donovan’s old room, but I get the sense you wouldn’t want to sleep in there.”
When I was growing up, the blue room was—in many ways—my prison and my sanctuary.
I suppose life has a way of coming full circle when you least expect it.
“You’re not wrong.” I slip my bag over my shoulder and head for the stairs, instinctively skipping the ones that creak. Funny how chunks of my childhood are fuzzy memories or completely blacked out while little things like this have never left.
Anneliese follows me, her hand gliding up the rough railing of the banister.
“The bed’s a little small,” she says. “I’m assuming it’s the same one from when you were a kid? There’s a dresser, but I haven’t opened it. We hadn’t gotten around to that room yet. I assumed it was just a spare room . . .”