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 wince. “I’m sorry. That’s really unacceptable.”
She flicks her wrist and bunches her lips at one side, continuing on to the next table of shoes.
“It’s water under the bridge,” she says. “He leaves me alone now. It’s all good.” Going back to the last shoe table, she grabs the purple heels. “On second thought, I think I’m going to get these. They’re kind of badass, aren’t they? Completely impractical, but at fifty percent off . . .”
“Get the shoes,” I say.
“Did you want to try any on before we move on to the next shop?” she asks.
“Nothing’s really catching my eye today,” I say. And it’s true. I’m not in the market for new shoes anyway. I have a small collection of dressy shoes from my Chicago days and an assortment of sneakers and Keds to get me through renovations and long days at the bookshop—which are fortunately coming to an end as of tomorrow, when Flo officially returns.
We browse a few more shops before calling it a day, and I return home to a six-foot-two auburn-haired Adonis cooking shirtless in the kitchen, nothing but a pair of tight jeans and my floral apron tied around his muscled waist.
“This is an interesting look for you,” I say, wrapping my arms around him from behind.
“You like?” He tends to whatever the heck he’s sautéing on the stove. I don’t know what it is, but it smells divine.
A week ago, he dressed up as his dead brother so I could get some closure. Six days ago, he professed that he was falling for me before carrying me upstairs and claiming my body once and for all. The following morning, he gifted me with a triple orgasm before I’d so much as set one foot off the bed. Four days ago, he took me out on our first official date, at some overlook pass on the edge of town, where we watched the sunset and waited until the sky was full of stars before camping in the back of his truck.
Lachlan sets the heat to low before turning to face me. “I want to take you with me when I leave.”
I feel the smile practically melting from my face. I’ve been so caught up in the excitement of everything this past week, so focused on having zero expectations like he once said, that I haven’t thought about what comes next.
Or maybe I didn’t want to think about what comes next . . .
“Think about all the interesting people you’ll meet, all the freedom you’ll have; every day will be yours and mine,” he says. “To do whatever the hell we want.”
“That sounds like a great vacation . . .” My mouth turns dry. I can already envision the conversation that’s about to follow—one where we realize despite our rampant attraction to one another, our lifestyles are tragically incompatible. “I’m more of a roots kind of girl. I don’t think I could drift from city to city with a backpack for the rest of my life. I’m adventurous, but not that adventurous.”
“Once you spread those wings, Anneliese, you’ll wonder why you didn’t do it sooner.” He cups my face in his hand before tipping my chin up until our eyes lock.
“Sell this house, and I’ll fly anywhere you want,” I tease. “We can take a trip. A trial-basis kind of thing.”
I haven’t told him yet, but I’ve been thinking more and more about what he went through with his mother and the kind of closure he so clearly needs. It’s a devastating loss that has haunted him for nearly two decades, compounded by the emotional and psychological abuse of his father and brother. If I were him, I’d want to light these memories on fire too.
Months back, when I was attempting to research the history of this house, I found a microfiche article about the doctor who built the place. He and his wife had seven children, but only one of them survived past infancy. When the baby was two years old, the father passed of tuberculosis.
Maybe this place is cursed.
Maybe the people who live here are doomed to experience loss and tragedy.
Maybe we’d be doing the world a favor if we just let it . . . burn.
TWENTY-EIGHT
LACHLAN
cryptadia (n.) things kept hidden
I pull up to the savings and loan Monday afternoon, a packet of paperwork on the truck bench beside me. Earlier this morning, I received a call from Swank, saying the estate had been established and I’d been officially named as the administrator, which means we can begin the process of transferring the house—and any bank accounts—into my name.
Heading inside with my papers in hand, I approach a cheerful red-haired bank teller and explain my situation. She picks up the phone, punching in an extension, and a moment later, she directs me to a personal banker in a private office.