Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Cromwell glanced at me from the side of his eye. “I think you’re a music snob, Farraday.”
“What?”
He nodded. “Classical, folk, country, any other genre, really. All but EDM. Computer-created sounds.” He shook his head. “You’re a snob.” I didn’t know why, but being called a snob in an English accent made it feel so much worse.
“I’m not at all. I…I…”
“I what?” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I really don’t like you at times,” I said, fully understanding that I sounded like a two-year-old.
“I know you don’t,” he said, but there was no belief in his tone. Because as much as I hadn’t liked Cromwell Dean, I was beginning to. That was a lie. I already liked him.
And that’s what terrified me.
Cromwell pulled into the road that led to the Jefferson Museum. I sat in confusion as he pulled us to a stop at the nearly deserted parking lot. “I think it’s closed,” I said as Cromwell got out of the truck. He opened my door and held out his hand. “Come on.”
I slid my hand in his, trying to keep it from shaking. I thought he’d let go of my hand as we made our way down the path to the entrance. But he didn’t. He kept tight hold. I tried to keep up with him, but I couldn’t. Cromwell stopped. “You okay? You’re limping.”
“I twisted my ankle,” I said, feeling the tinny taste of lies on my tongue.
“Can you walk?” The truth was, it was becoming more and more difficult. But I wouldn’t give up.
I was determined to fight.
“I can walk if we go slow.”
Cromwell walked slowly beside me. “Do I get any clue yet as to what we’re doing here at the museum after hours?” I pulled on his arm. “You’re not gonna break us in, are you?”
Cromwell’s dimple popped again. A single dimple on his left cheek. The sight pulled at my heart. “It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?” he said.
I fought a laugh. “The piercings, really.” As if on cue, Cromwell rolled his tongue and his tongue ring came between his teeth. My face set on fire when I remembered how it had danced so close to mine. I hadn’t kissed him enough yet to feel its full effect.
I couldn’t let that happen at all.
“Don’t worry, Sandra Dee. I’ve got permission to be here.”
The security guard must have expected us, because he let us straight through. “Second floor,” he said.
“I’ve been here this week already.” Cromwell led us toward the stairs. He quickly looked back at me, then took us to the elevator. I melted a little.
As the elevator doors closed, Cromwell stayed right by my side. “Any clue yet?” I asked, when the proximity and strained silence got too much.
“Patience, Farraday.”
We got out of the elevator and stopped in front of a closed door. Cromwell ran his hand through his hair. “You said you wanted to know what it felt like.” He opened the door and led me inside a dark room. He pulled me by the hand to the center then moved to the side. I squinted, trying to see what he was doing, but I could barely see in front of me.
Then Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor flooded through speakers hidden somewhere in the walls. I smiled as the music filled the room.
And then I sucked in a quick breath. Lines of color started dancing along the black walls. Reds and pinks and blues and greens. I stood, mesmerized, as with each note another color burst against the walls. Shapes formed on one wall, triangles, circles, squares. And I let it wash over me. As the music poured into my ears, colors flared in my eyes.
I drank it all in. This was synesthesia. It had to be. Cromwell had brought me here to show me what he saw. When the piece ended and the walls faded to black, Cromwell came over to me. I turned to him, wide-eyed and filled with so much awe it was overwhelming.
“Cromwell,” I said, and a line of bright yellow splashed along the walls. I threw my hand over my mouth, laughing when it happened again.
Cromwell brought a couple of beanbags over from the side of the room. He placed them side by side and said, “Sit.”
A flash of pale blue darted across the walls as he spoke. I did as he said, grateful for the reprise. I stared up at the ceiling; it too was painted black. I turned to Cromwell, his face already watching mine. He was so close to me. Our arms already touching. “It’s what you see, isn’t it?”
He looked at the lines of color that flickered in tune with our words. “It’s like it.” He studied the blue that came when he spoke. “It’s based on someone else. My colors are different.” He tapped his ear. “I hear Requiem differently. My colors aren’t in tune with this one.”