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)
I can’t stop thinking about his charming smile and the familiar yet mysterious gaze he has when he’s looking at me like I’m the only person he sees. I liked that feeling. I liked being seen. Acknowledged. Wanted.
I never should have let him kiss me; I never should have gotten myself caught up in how good it felt to be unapologetically desired for the first time in forever.
While I could talk myself out of liking him until I’m blue in the face, the most frustrating part of it all is that my worries have no basis in reality . . .
They’re only rooted in the fact that he is a Byrne.
And if history is the best indicator of the future, nothing good can come from getting wrapped up with one.
TWENTY-FOUR
LACHLAN
laconic (adj.) expressing much in few words
“So?” Lynnette crosses her pencil-thin legs before lighting a Virginia Slim. “How’s it going with the whole house situation? You went radio silent on me for a while. Thought maybe you’d changed your mind about burning the place down and skipped town.”
I deserve that.
Settling into her sagging sofa, I drag my palm across my five-o’clock shadow. I’ve been here since four o’clock this afternoon; I changed the oil in her mower, ate two heaping servings of tuna casserole, fixed the leaking faucet in her bathroom, and replaced the busted lock on her back door. I’m surprised it took her this long to bring up the house.
“Actually took your advice,” I say. “I’m living there.”
Her brows lift. “No shit? With the girl? What’s her name . . . Annielynn?”
“Anneliese,” I correct her. “And yes. I’m living there. Staying in my old room, actually.”
Lynnette winces. “That’s rough.”
“It’s different,” I say. Just being in that hellhole conjures up a lifetime of memories best forgotten, but I do a decent enough job at tamping those down when they crop up. It’s a skill I’ve almost mastered over the years. “Better than the Pine Grove Motel.”
She exhales a plume of smoke. “That’s the spirit, kid. You helping her fix it up, then?”
I nod, my jaw set. “That was part of the agreement.”
“So you’ll sell it when it’s all done, then? And not donate it to the fire department?”
“Jury’s still out on that one.”
Lynnette rolls her eyes. “What’s the latest with the whole estate-lawyer thing?”
“Swank filed. Just waiting . . .” I clear my throat. “Once I’m officially named administrator of Don’s estate, I can check into his financials. I’m hoping there’s something left in that bank account that he opened with her money. Maybe that’ll be enough for her to walk away from the house.”
“Is it about money for her? Or is she grieving your brother?”
I sniff. “Pretty sure the mourning period is over.”
She takes a drag, squinting my way. “Oh yeah? And how would you know that?”
“We’ve been together every day for the past couple of weeks almost. Pretty sure I’ve got her figured out.”
She crosses her legs the other direction, leaning against the opposite arm of her recliner. “Lachlan . . . please tell me you’re not taking advantage of this poor woman.”
“Taking advantage?” I chuff. “I’m letting her live in my house, rent-free, while I do all of the manual labor, also for free. Pretty sure she’s getting the good end of the deal here.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” Her voice is low, scolding almost. “The girl lost her fiancé in a horrible car accident, and then you show up, looking like a better version of the man she fell in love with . . .”
I pull in a hard breath.
Nothing gets past Lynnette.
Ever.
I learned that the hard way in sixth grade when Bryce and I propped a bunch of pillows under his bunk bed covers and sneaked out in the middle of the night to go skateboarding at the park. She was out cold when we left, snoring up a storm in her room. It took forever to tiptoe to the back door without making a sound, but we managed. By the time we came home an hour later, every light in the house was on, and Lynnette was pacing her living room, chain-smoking, so furious she was shaking.
The thing that stood out the most about that moment, though, was that the verbal lashing she gave to me was worse than the one she gave to her own son.
Looking back, I think she was doubling down, trying to say the things she thought my own mother would want her to say: that someone gave a shit about me.
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
She stubs her cigarette out before cracking open the sweaty can of Diet Pepsi on her side table. “You’re a shitty liar, Lachlan. Always have been.”
“What are you talking about?”
She shoots me some side-eye. “You kissed her, didn’t you?”
How she can infer that from this fragmented conversation is beyond me, but the woman has an impressive knack for picking up every last nuance.