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)
He was only at the house an hour or so when he shut me down for asking questions about his past. Maybe I’d overstepped my boundaries, but given the fact that I’m living with a stranger with a complicated history, I figured I had the right to ask.
It doesn’t mean he owes me an answer.
I left before I made things worse—before I rattled off the laundry list of follow-up questions dancing on the tip of my tongue. I made it to the bookshop with a few extra minutes on hand, so I spent a little time googling Lachlan . . . only to come up with nothing. He’s a human question mark, and it’s only a matter of time before I open my mouth again and pry a little more.
The bells on the door jangle, and I straighten my shoulders and stop replaying the conversation from this morning the instant I spot a familiar face.
“Berlin,” I say with a wince, suddenly remembering my promise to her earlier in the week. Things have been so hectic I completely spaced out on brainstorming those flower-shop names. “Hi . . . I’m so sorry, but I don’t have the names for you yet.”
I think back to the day Lachlan was here and his comment about Berlin being Donovan’s former flame. If people around here talk as much as Flo claims they do, she has to know who I am.
“Oh my gosh. No worries at all.” She brushes her hand through the air. “I actually just closed my shop for the day, and I was in the area, so I wanted to stop in and thank you for those books you helped me pick out. I’ve read two of the four so far. Taking notes. I think it’s really going to help get my shop off the ground.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
Berlin browses a clearance table, flipping aimlessly through a few coffee-table books that catch her eye.
“Are you looking for anything in particular today or just browsing?” I ask. I can’t help but wonder if she came in to scope me out again—if that’s what she was doing the last time.
She glances up through her long dark lashes. “Not really.”
I straighten up the register area in an attempt to stay busy. I must have Windexed this thing a dozen times yesterday, but once more couldn’t hurt. An upbeat Mariah Carey classic plays from the speakers above.
“Berlin, can I ask you something?” I break the silence after a few endless minutes.
“Of course.” She looks up, waiting, and tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear.
“You used to date Donovan Byrne, right?”
Her mouth arches into a confused half smile. “Yeah, actually. I did. How did you know that?”
I exhale, relieved that she probably wasn’t stalking me the other day.
“His brother is back in town,” I say. “He actually saw us chatting and said something to me.”
Her brows meet, and her mouth is agape. “Lachlan’s back? Really?”
Relief washes over me once more as she confirms that Lachlan is, indeed, Donovan’s brother—not that I could deny their uncanny resemblance.
“I haven’t seen him since”—she stares off to the side—“high school? What’s he been up to?”
“Living abroad,” I say, offering as much as I can. “Doing a little bit of everything.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Always thought he was going to turn out to be some famous writer or something. He was always that artsy, quiet kid sitting in the back of the classroom, doing his own thing.”
Two writers in the family . . .
Donovan once told me that his mother had loved books, that their study was once her personal library. It makes sense that she passed down her love of storytelling to both of her sons.
“I don’t know if you knew, but I was engaged to Donovan when he passed,” I say.
Her jubilant expression evaporates, and she walks toward me, her hand covering her heart.
“I’d heard he was engaged, but that’s all I knew. I’m so sorry for your loss . . .” Frowning, she adds, “And I’m extremely embarrassed to admit that I don’t even know your name. You weren’t wearing a name tag when I came in that day . . .”
“It’s Anneliese,” I say.
“Anneliese,” she says. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful for you, losing your fiancé.”
Berlin places her hand over mine, her eyes softening.
“Don and I lost touch over the past few years, but I was devastated when I got the news.” She studies me, her voice laced in sympathy. “Life can be so cruel sometimes.”
I don’t remember seeing her at his funeral. Then again, that day is a foggy blur. I spent the entire service watching from the private grieving suite with my parents, too inconsolable to get myself together enough to thank people for coming. I wanted to be strong for him, but the more I tried to hold it in, the more it forced its way out.