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)
Donovan dying is the best thing to ever happen to her—even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I clean up our dinner situation and head upstairs to grab a shower, stopping outside her door to ensure she isn’t crying. Not that I’d know what to do if she were.
It’s silent on the other side.
I imagine her leaning against the headboard, paging through my mother’s book of beautiful words, stopping to read the circled ones, which would be a better use of time than mourning a fictional husband.
Overhead, at the end of the hall, is the attic door. I think about the jar of words Anneliese mentioned earlier. That very well may be the last remaining artifact from my mother’s time on earth—other than her ashes, which my father kept God knows where (if he kept them at all).
I debate heading up there but decide against it.
Some things are better left untouched.
THIRTEEN
ANNELIESE
apodyopsis (n.) the act of mentally undressing someone
I roll over Sunday morning and peek at my blurry alarm clock on the other side of the room, which tells me it’s half past eleven. I can’t remember the last time I slept in, but I also can’t remember the last time I woke up feeling this rested.
I went to bed embarrassingly early last night, but I didn’t fall asleep until almost midnight. I kept thinking about Lachlan’s stories. While I still hardly know the man, he fascinates me already. And the crazy thing is he’s not even trying. He isn’t trying to prove himself or impress me. There are no humblebrags or gentlemanly gestures. Not that he’s here to woo me or that I want to be wooed, but there’s something refreshing about having a conversation that doesn’t require chess-like moves.
Sitting up, I spot the red book with the black spine on the pillow beside me. I paged through it a little bit last night when I couldn’t sleep, pausing to study a few of the circled words . . . words that Lachlan claims were circled by his mother. I page to the s section, pausing when I get to the word selcouth, which is double circled.
It’s all the confirmation I need.
Sighing, I shove my heavy covers aside, climb out of bed, and slide my feet into a pair of house slippers before heading to the bathroom to wash up. Stealing a quick glance down the hall, I notice that Lachlan’s bedroom door is open and his bed is made.
The house is still.
Too quiet almost.
Maybe last night was too much for him? Maybe he changed his mind? Or maybe he ran out for coffee? A million scenarios race through my mind—good and otherwise.
Trotting downstairs, I peek out the window at the bottom to see if his truck is still parked in the driveway.
It is.
I make my way through the main level, ending up on the front porch—which is when I finally find him pulling weeds from the landscaping.
Shirtless . . .
His body glistens with sweat thanks to the summer humidity, and his muscles ripple through his taut skin with every pull and bend. Entranced, I watch him work from behind the porch railing. He’s quick and efficient, and he doesn’t miss a single broadleaf weed.
“Morning,” I say, snapping out of it.
But he doesn’t respond.
Clearing my throat, I say it again, louder: “Good morning.”
Still, he says nothing.
It’s only when he changes his position that I notice the white pods in his ears. He pops one out when he finally sees me.
“What are you listening to?” I ask.
“A mix,” he answers in vague Lachlan fashion. “You sleep well?”
I nod. “I was thinking about maybe grabbing some coffee, and I need to water Flo’s houseplants. You want to come with?”
Maybe it’s a weird little excursion to invite him on, but after a rocky start, I feel like we’re finally connecting. Running a couple of errands together could almost be . . . fun?
“It’ll maybe take an hour at the most,” I add, sensing his hesitation and suddenly doubting the idea altogether.
My gaze accidentally drops to the sharp V of his Adonis belt as I wait for his response, but I redirect it to his glinting copper eyes. Donovan was in great shape, but he was leaner with more of a runner’s build. Lachlan looks like he could single-handedly take on a gang of Marvel villains if he had to.
“When was the last time you mowed?” He ignores my invite.
I ignore the sting.
“There’s a neighbor kid who mows it every week for twenty bucks,” I say. “But I think his family’s on vacation right now.”
“Do you own a mower?”
“There’s one in the shed. I don’t know if it works or not. He usually brings his own.”
He squints toward the side yard, quiet as if he’s lost in thought.
“So that’s a no . . . to the coffee?” I ask, pointing. “Just want to be sure.”