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)
“I don’t know if I have it in me tonight. I’m still processing that documentary . . .”
“Yeah, that was a wild ride. I think my mom really appreciated how into it you were,” she says. “You know, my dad probably said more words to you tonight than he ever said to Donovan the entire time we were together.”
There she goes again, bringing him into a space where he’s not welcome.
“Interesting,” I say, monotone.
“Donovan always did most of the talking,” she adds.
“Most bullshitters do.”
“I always thought he was just rambling on because he wanted my dad to like him. Maybe on an unspoken level he could sense that my dad was seeing through him,” she says. “My parents tried to warn me not to make this move, but I had stars in my eyes, and I thought they were just being overprotective. Their only child wanting to run off with some guy she hardly knows would make any parent nervous.”
“You live, you learn, then you move on. That’s all you can do.”
“It’s going to be hard moving on,” she says, breathing me in. “With someone new, I mean. Romantically. Whenever that happens . . . I’ll probably be scrutinizing every word that comes out of their mouth, paranoid that I’m missing a red flag or that the bottom’s going to drop out at any time.”
“You’re too soft. Too trusting. Most people have their own interests at heart. Just keep that in mind, and you’ll be all right.”
“That’s very . . . uninspiring.”
“I’m a realist.”
“So you’re saying I’m an idealist?”
I adjust my shoulders against my pillow. My arm is falling asleep beneath her, but she seems comfortable, so I won’t make her move just yet.
“You see things for what they can be,” I say. “I see things for what they are. You’re better off letting go of any expectations, and that applies to everything, everyone, and everywhere.”
“So that day you came to my door to tell me this house belonged to you, you had zero expectations?” A hint of sarcasm resides in her voice.
“I had zero expectations that this was going to go smoothly,” I say. “And that was confirmed when you slammed the door in my face.”
I also had zero expectations that I would catch myself daydreaming about how her lips would taste against mine or how soft her skin would feel beneath my palms. The last thing I ever expected was to be attracted to my dead brother’s would’ve-been widow.
As much as I enjoy my own company—and have for the past decade—a part of me is starting to enjoy hers more. And that’s something I haven’t had with anyone else. Even the slew of “ordinary” women I dated in the UK began to grate on my nerves after a few days together. After a long weekend, I’d always need a break or a breather before going back for more—and it wasn’t their fault. I just don’t tend to like most people.
But there’s something about Anneliese . . .
Something that makes me want to talk to her a little longer, forget about life for a while.
She’s just . . . so damn nice.
Easy to like.
Intelligent.
Different.
Interesting.
Just as sexy in a pencil skirt as she is in a paint-stained T-shirt.
“You still want that story?” I ask, keeping my voice down.
She doesn’t answer.
When I glance down, I find that her eyes are closed and her breathing has slowed to a steady pace. She’s out cold, her arm draped across my chest. And it’s probably better this way. Had we stayed up all night talking, I can’t promise I wouldn’t have made a move by morning. Those petal-pink lips are begging to be claimed by someone who actually gives a shit about her.
Anneliese once mentioned that she intends to go back to Chicago after we sort out the fate of this house. My plan has always been to return overseas—though I’m leaning toward Spain for this next go-around. We’re on two very different trains leaving the station in opposite directions—but if things were different, I’d make her mine.
TWENTY-ONE
ANNELIESE
phosphenes (n.) the colors or “stars” you see when rubbing your eyes
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Mom asks as we watch Lachlan and Dad seal the deck Saturday afternoon. The two of them have been going at it since sunup. “At fixing things, I mean.”
Better than Donovan was, that’s for sure.
“He certainly knows his way around a sander,” I say, watching the way his tanned and taut muscles ripple through his white V-neck T-shirt.
“They make a great team.”
“Lachlan’s pretty easy to get along with.”
“I’ll say.” Her eyes sparkle for a moment. “I have a feeling your father would’ve been happier had you fallen for Lachlan instead of Donovan.” She makes the sign of the cross before her expression grows somber. “God rest his soul.”
Such a weird thing to say.