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)
“Mom . . .” I shoot her a look.
“Look at them,” she says. “I’ve never seen your father talk to anyone as much as he’s been talking to Lachlan. You’d think they’d run out of things to talk about by now, but nope. Every time I peek out there, they’re gabbing away like they’ve known each other their whole lives.”
She’s right—that’s not my dad’s normal modus operandi.
“Dad’s probably telling him every story he can think of from his year in Glasgow.” I run my hand along the smooth ceramic top of the new range that was delivered this morning. It’s crazy that a few weeks ago this room was nothing more than a dorm fridge, microwave, and folding table, and now all we need are countertops and light fixtures. “He’s probably just tickled to be able to tell his stories to someone who hasn’t heard them a million times.”
Mom sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”
Falling asleep in Lachlan’s arms last night came easier than I thought it would. I was worried he’d feel too much like Donovan, but the more I settled in and concentrated on the comforting thrum of his heartbeat against my ear and the soft rumble of his voice in the dark, the less I thought about . . . anything else.
Despite their uncanny resemblance, Lachlan doesn’t feel like Donovan’s brother to me.
He’s his own separate entity.
“What’s the plan after this?” Mom asks, stealing me from my thoughts.
I take two glasses from one of the new cabinets and fill them with ice water from the brand-new french door refrigerator for the guys.
“We still need to sand and stain a few of the interior rooms,” I say. “One of the bathrooms needs remodeled. And then we’ll paint . . . inside and out . . . after that it’s light fixtures. Then we’ll need to order an appraisal.”
“No, I mean, what’s after this,” she says, motioning wide with her arms. “Are you planning to stick around Arcadia Grove, or are you looking for a change of scenery? I know we’ve talked about this before, but the offer still stands: you can always come home.”
In a perfect world, I’d recoup my savings and move back to Chicago. I’d have enough for a decent apartment in my old neighborhood as well as time to relaunch my business. If I walk away from this empty handed, I’ll have no other choice than to move back home with my parents until I can get on my feet again.
“Everything’s kind of up in the air at the moment,” I say.
She frowns, studying me. “It pains me to see you struggling. And we hate what that man did, leaving you in the lurch like that. You didn’t deserve it.”
My parents have said a million things since the truth came out about Donovan’s deception, but not once have they uttered the words we told you so.
I slide my arm around her shoulders and give her a squeeze. “I know, Mom. Thank you.”
She follows my gaze to Lachlan.
“He’s a nice young man, isn’t he?” Her voice is laced with sorrow, pitiful almost.
“He is,” I say. “He’s been a godsend.”
Funny, if someone had told me the first time Lachlan and I met that I’d be calling him a godsend weeks later, I’d have never believed them.
“It may seem like he’s your white knight,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “And I see the way the two of you look at each other. But sweetheart, whatever you do, don’t go romanticizing any of this.”
“The way we look at each other?” I choke on my laugh.
Mom leans in, swatting her hand between us. “Anneliese, your father and I weren’t born yesterday. The way you two flirt, the way you text each other when you think no one’s paying attention, that smile you can’t take off your face when he’s around . . . sharing a bedroom . . .”
My jaw all but hits the floor. “You’re just reading into it.”
“A mother knows her own daughter,” she says, almost disapproving. “I know how you get around men you like, Anneliese. I’ve seen it before. This is no different.” Leaning closer, she adds, “I just want you to be careful. I’d hate to see you hurt all over again. That one’s got heartbreak written all over him.”
I don’t disagree with her statements at all, but she has it all wrong.
“I don’t like him—not like that,” I say. “He’s nice, and he’s helping me out around here. Period. End of sentence.”
He may be ridiculously, unfairly, distractingly good looking, a skilled storyteller, and a top-notch conversationalist, but I’m not looking for a relationship, and if I were, it wouldn’t be with my dead fiancé’s estranged brother. Not because I’m loyal to Donovan but because I’m not interested in a buy-one-get-one-free Byrne-brother special.
One Byrne is more than enough for this lifetime.