Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
I smile, then buzz my window down a few inches. It’s snowing like crazy, so I don’t go overboard on that.
“Hi.” He smiles and tries again. “I’m Ryet.” He points to the cabins again. “I’m the caretaker of those hideous things they’re calling cottages. I saw you out here and thought maybe you needed some help.”
Wow. He’s like a lumberjack on a romance cover and he’s even got the rugged name to go with it. I blink at him, hastily wipe my tears, and then smile. “I was looking for food. I’m new in town and there’s nothing to eat in my apartment.”
“This place has apartments?” He looks towards downtown, which is only about half a mile away, like he’s trying to figure out where the miniscule mountain town of White River, Idaho, might be hiding apartments.
“It’s above the hardware store.”
“Ohhh.” He looks back at me and grins. And is that… a dimple? “I’m pretty new here too. But I was absolutely certain that this town does not have apartments.”
We just stare at each other for a moment.
Then I say, “So, where can a girl grab a bite—” while he’s saying, “We’ve got food at the lodge, if you want to come in and eat.”
We both look over at ‘the lodge’ and laugh.
“Lodge might be overselling it.” And he flashes me that dimple again.
“Well, beggars should never be choosers. So sure. Thanks. Hop in. I’ll drive you home.”
His smile grows even bigger. His eyes might twinkle. Then he takes me up on the offer even though we’re only going across the street.
I plow the truck through the snow, park in front of ‘the lodge,’ turn the truck off, and start to open my door.
But he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hold on.”
“What?” I turn to look at him. He’s wincing. “What’s that look?”
“Here’s the thing—”
“You’re not really the caretaker?”
“No, I am. But…” His eyes dart over to the lodge.
“Your wife is in there?”
He laughs out loud and looks back at me. “No.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I should maybe be worried at this turn of events because I don’t know this man. We literally met three minutes ago. But for some reason… I dunno. I’m kinda into it.
He lets out a long breath. “Well, my boss? His… thing… is in there.”
“Thing?”
“You know. She’s not a girlfriend, she’s not a wife, but they’re attached. He gave her this place, and he’s making me renovate it, because she’s pregnant.”
“Ohhh.”
“Yeah. It’s that kind of thing. But not the point. The point is she’s in there, checking some shit out, and I don’t want to go in there. I would like to go in there.” He gestures to the cabin next to the lodge.
“Ohhhhhh.”
“Yeah. It’s not looking good, is it?”
I laugh. “The creep factor is gettin’ dialed up, buddy. That’s a fact.”
He puts his hand over his heart. “I promise, I am not a creep. I would like to get you out of this weather, stuff you with food, and then… I dunno. Play vinyl records and reminisce about old times.”
“Wow. You’re kinda poetic.”
“I have my moments.”
“Here’s the problem with that.”
“Hit me up. I’m nothing if not a problem solver.”
“We don’t know each other. So we can’t reminisce.”
“You’re in luck.”
My mood has improved by a thousand percent, so I practically giggle. “Am I?”
“You really are. Because here’s your solution. We make shit up.”
I laugh out loud. “That’s pretty much just… lying.”
“Some call it fiction.”
“So let me make sure I’m understanding you. You would like me, a stranger, to go inside that cabin right there, with you, also a stranger, so we can eat, warm up, play old records, and then create a fictional past so we can pretend to reminisce about it.”
“You totally get me.”
“Well.” I let out a long breath. “This could go one of two ways. One, I fall madly in love with you, we get married, have kids, have grandkids, and sixty years from now, when we tell this story, everyone thinks we’re making it up.”
He unleashes that dimple a third time. “What’s two?”
“I could turn out to be a serial killer—”
He guffaws.
“Why is that funny? You don’t think I’m capable?”
“Statistically speaking, serial killers are not women.”
“Fine. Two, you could turn out to be a serial killer—”
“Much better.” We both laugh. And he points to me. “You’re fun.”
“Ya know, I don’t think a single person has ever called me ‘fun.’”
“Shut up.”
“Seriously.”
“Ya know what I think?”
“Why stop this banter now? We’re getting really good at it. Hit me up. Tell me what you think.”
“I think you’re the girl I was never waiting for.”
I cover my mouth with my hand because I almost spit out the laugh.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. But it’s Syrsee.”
“Syrsee. That’s kinda sexy.”
“Dude, sexy? Your name—I mean, Riot? Come on. That’s a crowd-pleaser.”
“You’re getting confused. It’s not spelled R-I-O-T. It’s R-Y-E-T. My real name is Zecharyet. But no one calls me that.”