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)
If what Berlin is saying is true, Donovan must have been love bombing me too.
While I’m certainly not qualified to diagnose him, I can’t help but wonder how much time we had left before his true personality came out to play. How much longer until he’d have played my heart like a fiddle too? How much longer until the mental and emotional gymnastics kicked in? Never mind the damage he was doing to my bank account right under my nose . . .
My stomach twists, disconcerted again.
“Anytime you want to talk about him, I’m here,” Berlin says. “Our good days outnumbered the bad. I’ve got plenty of . . . more appetizing memories to share.”
Her voice takes a wistful turn, but I don’t want to push her. She’s already shared more than enough to paint a vivid picture of the man Donovan truly was.
We finish our coffee with small talk, and an hour later, I head home to Lachlan. I find him passed out on the living room sofa, one arm above his head and the other across his stomach. The TV is muted and flickering, painting his handsome face in a myriad of colors.
Berlin’s words fill my mind—about their mother dying in this house in a tragic accident. If that’s truly the reason he wants to burn this place down, it must be hard for him to spend his days here, restoring it to its former glory. He spoke so lovingly of his mother the other day, about her love of books and words.
This can’t be easy for him.
Careful not to wake him, I grab a throw blanket off the back of the couch and cover him up. He spent the entirety of the day prepping the kitchen so the cabinets could be installed. Tomorrow he’s heading to the cabinetmaker to pick them up and bring them here to get acclimated. Wednesday will be the big install day.
Everything’s happening so quickly. At this rate, we’ll have this place ready to sell by the end of next month—assuming he’s willing to sell it and not still hell bent on donating it to the fire department.
I tiptoe upstairs, wash up for bed, and read a text from my mom.
Just wanted to let you know, we’re coming on Friday, she writes. Will send you the itinerary tomorrow.
I still need to break the news to them that I have a roommate. At this point, it might be better to do it in person. They’re not going to spaz out in front of someone they’ve just met. They’ll paint smiles on their faces and keep their thoughts to themselves like the good midwesterners they are, and hopefully by the time the initial shock wears off, they’ll have warmed up to the idea of me living with a complete stranger who happens to be the brother of a man they never 100 percent approved of.
Looking back, I know I should have listened to them when they shared their doubts about Donovan, but I was too blind to see what they were seeing. I thought they were being overprotective and that it was clouding their judgment.
Lesson learned—and it’s one I never intend on repeating.
If something’s too good to be true, it almost always is.
SIXTEEN
LACHLAN
appetence (n.) an eager desire, an instinctive inclination; an attraction
“So . . . teeny, tiny issue,” Anneliese says Tuesday morning as she leans in the doorway of the kitchen. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a lacy white blouse, her hair pulled back by an oversize black headband. A thin gold pendant hangs from her neck, stopping between the dip of her collarbone and the top of her cleavage. I train my gaze back to where it belongs—on her big blue eyes. “My parents are coming this Friday and staying for a few days.”
I set my screwdriver aside. “And what’s the issue?”
“They usually stay here . . . normally I’d give them my bed and take yours. Is there any way we can fix up one of the other rooms?” She winces, crossing her fingers.
“By Friday?” I scratch my temple. “I mean, we could clean it up. I wouldn’t sand or stain it because you don’t want to be breathing those fumes every night. Do you even have an extra bed to put in there?”
“No,” she says. “I was going to get an air mattress. I just need your help moving things around so we can actually fit one up there somewhere.”
“Put it in my room,” I say as Anneliese twists at her necklace. Her fingertips graze the exposed bit of skin above her shirt, and for a brief moment, I find myself imagining my lips there instead. “You can have my bed, and I’ll take the mattress.”
She begins to speak but stops as if she’s digesting a thought that never occurred to her before now. I’ve slept in every kind of bed imaginable over the last ten years . . . bunk beds, barracks, couches, futons, waterbeds, sleeping bags. A few days on an air mattress is no big deal.