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)
“And did she?” He cracks his beer.
“Eventually, but first she called me a ‘piece of literal human garbage’—those were her exact words.”
Lachlan almost chokes on his drink. “That’s the best she could do?”
“I guess.” I shrug. “Flo comes back the week after next, and I can’t wait. I’m really not cut out for retail.”
“You’re a good friend,” he says, tipping his can in my direction. “Filling in like that.”
“Tell that to the woman who thinks I’m trash.”
“You mean literal human garbage,” he corrects me.
“Right, right.”
He chuckles. “Oh, hey. I grabbed that air mattress today while I was out.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I was already at the hardware store. Saw one on a shelf. Not a big deal . . .”
Two weeks ago, I didn’t know this man existed. Then he blasted into my life on the heels of a thunderstorm—figuratively and physically speaking. In four short days, he’s become an unexpected bright spot in my day.
“You want to take this outside?” He nods toward the front door. “Don’t know about you, but I could go for a change of scenery.”
A minute later, we’re situated on the front steps, sitting so close his arm brushes against mine every time he takes a drink.
“Looks like it might rain again soon,” he says, gazing up at the starless sky and the faint glow of the moon obscured by thick clouds. The air is charged tonight, though it could be the impending storm system . . .
A tepid burst of wind kisses my face, and I inhale a long, deep breath.
“Some people love the way it smells after it rains,” I say. “But I’ve always been partial to the way it smells before it rains.”
“Petrichor,” he says. “That earthy scent that happens after it rains. Some people can smell it before, though.”
I inhale again, taking in as much of the pungent-sweet, prerain ozone as I can in one go.
Lightning flashes in the distance. I wait for a rumble of thunder that never comes. The cell is too far away yet. A car passes, and a couple of people on bikes with blinking lights whir by. Across the street, a neighbor flicks on their porch light and greets a pizza-delivery woman.
It’s been a while since I sat still somewhere and observed the world around me—it makes me wonder about all the things I’ve missed because I was too wrapped up in my own things.
“Her name is Joan.” Lachlan breaks the silence.
“What are you talking about?”
“The pizza-delivery gal.” He motions toward the Nissan backing out of the neighbor’s driveway. “She’s a single mom of a thirteen-year-old boy, and she picks up a few evening shifts each week to help pay for his baseball camp. He’s really good, but if he wants a chance at being scouted when he gets to high school, he needs to play on the good leagues, and those aren’t cheap. The uniforms alone are a couple hundred bucks, plus the cost of traveling to all the different tournaments. This is her second year, and she’s come to hate the smell of pizza because she can never quite wash it out of her hair or off her skin. It’s always there. But the hours work for her schedule, and the tips are decent, and it beats waiting tables.”
“Sounds like a good mom.”
“Oh, she’s the best.” He lifts his beer to his lips, then adds, “Someday her son’s going to make it to the majors. He’s going to buy her a house with his first big check. And a shiny new car that doesn’t smell like pepperoni-and-mushroom deep dish. She’ll never have to deliver pizzas again.”
“See?” I nudge him. “Now that’s a heartwarming story.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“No. You finished. The story is over, happy ending and all. No one dies in this story.”
“So his dad—”
“Shhhh.” I clamp my hand over his mouth, feeling the slow spread of his smile against my palm.
He pulls away, laughing. “Fine. The end.”
I brush my shoulder against his, gifting him a playful nudge. For the briefest of moments, our gazes catch in the dark. His smile fades as he studies me, though I can’t begin to know what he’s thinking in this moment. I clear my throat and look away.
“Who’d have ever thought?” I ask.
“Thought what?”
“You showed up at my door less than two weeks ago, all but demanding the keys to this house so you could burn it down, and now you’re staying here, and you’re entertaining me with stories and doing all of the reno work and putting a smile on my face for the first time in a long time,” I say. “If my life was a story, you’d be the plot twist.”
“If you were anyone else, I’d tell you that’s a horrible pickup line,” he says, washing down his words with a mouthful of cheap beer. “But coming from you, I’ll take it as a compliment. And for the record, I still want to burn the place down. That hasn’t changed.”