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)
He wipes his forearm against his sweaty brow, shoving his matted auburn hair to the side. “You don’t want to be in a car with me right now. I’ve been out here since six a.m.”
My jaw falls. “Doing what?”
“Yard work.” He glances around as if it should be obvious. And now that I’m looking closer, I realize it is. “What else?”
“I didn’t realize it was that bad . . .” I knew I had some weeds, but I didn’t think it was out of control by any means.
“I’ll run to the store later and get some weed and feed, which should help this thicken up a bit,” he says. “I’ll grab some mulch to put around the trees too.”
I can’t help but wonder if he’s always this motivated or if he’s working hard to pass the weekend trial with flying colors. Other than our brief hiccup yesterday, I’d say things are going well so far. Once I made it past his thick layer of armor, he’s actually interesting to talk to. Admittedly easy on the eyes. Smart but not boastful. Direct but not arrogant. He’s layered. Cultured. Fearless.
I slam the brakes on my thoughts when I catch myself cataloging his traits like he’s a contestant on a dating game show.
“Thanks, though,” he says before popping his bud back into his ear and returning to the landscaping.
I’m on my way to Flo’s place an hour later when my mother calls.
“Just checking on you,” she says over my car speakers when I answer. “You’ve been quiet lately. Doing okay, sweetheart?”
I picture her pacing our little galley kitchen back in Geneva, Illinois. I can almost smell the Dawn dish-soap scent on her hands mixed with her White Shoulders perfume.
“Yeah, I’ve just been busy,” I say. “Florence had a family emergency, so I’m covering at her bookstore.”
I leave out any mention of Lachlan because I don’t want to worry them. They weren’t thrilled when I rushed into the engagement with Donovan and moved halfway across the country to start a new life with him. They thought we should have dated longer, and they certainly didn’t love the fact that I was leaving Chicago and was no longer a car ride away. Regardless, they were there for me the instant I got the news about Donovan. They even went so far as to cover his funeral expenses because there was no life insurance and no one else to step in and cover it. My plan was to pay them back—but that was before I found out about the bank account. They’ve yet to ask me for a single dime, but I intend to pay them back one of these days . . . plus interest.
My parents have hearts of pure, solid gold.
The last thing I want to do is give them yet another reason to worry about me.
“How’s the house coming along?” Mom asks.
“I’ve actually made a lot of progress this week.” Er, Lachlan has. “Getting the deck stripped so it can be sanded and sealed. The dining room floor is done. Working on the yard now.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful?” Her tone is nothing shy of relieved as she exhales into the phone. “I know it’s been quite the undertaking and it hasn’t been easy doing it on your own. Your father and I were actually thinking about coming out for a long weekend and helping . . . speed things along.”
All they want in this world is for me to get out from underneath this house and move back home—and that was the original plan after everything happened with Donovan. At some point this year, I was going to hire an attorney and take the necessary steps to settle his estate . . . but that was before I knew he had a brother.
It’s likely an open-and-shut case now that Lachlan’s here.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. I grip the steering wheel, coming to a stop at an intersection.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother laughs. “We’re due for another trip to see you anyway. And your father can install some of those light fixtures.”
“I don’t think we should install them until all of the floors have been resanded; otherwise they’re going to be collecting a lot of dust, and it’s just going to be—”
“Anneliese Elizabeth,” she says with a huff, in her trademark Chicagoan accent. “I love you, but let’s not drag this on any longer than necessary. We’re coming out next week. I’ll text you our flight itineraries once your father books them. Ope . . . your aunt Linda’s beeping in . . . I have to let you go. Can’t wait to see you, honey. Love you bunches.”
She ends the call, and the car behind me honks.
I shake out of my daze and press my foot into the accelerator. I missed the opportunity to tell her about Lachlan. She’s not going to be happy about the fact that I let a complete stranger move in with me—one who is on a mission to burn down the house if I can’t convince him not to. My parents aren’t going to understand—but to be fair, I don’t understand it either.