Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
He bounces his ball again. “You can come to dinner at our house. Mom always says we can fix an extra plate if someone needs it.”
“I have food, but thank you.”
“But you’re lonely.”
“I’m not lonely.”
He looks up and gives me a cheesy grin. “Yeah, you are. And you’re getting cranky.”
I snatch his ball midbounce and carry it to the grass by the driveway. There I set it gently on the ground.
“Your face doesn’t look happy, and you don’t want to talk about stuff,” he says, frowning. “You’re sad.”
This fucking kid. “I’m fine. And I’m closing this door.”
“Cran-ky.” He laughs wildly. “Thanks for pumping up my ball, Mr. Crankypants.”
My head hurts. “Goodbye.”
I press the button by the door leading into the house before Carter can come back in. The garage door begins to descend.
Carter crouches down from the other side and waves, bending until he’s on all fours. Finally, the door seals us apart.
“Your face doesn’t look happy, and you don’t want to talk about stuff. You’re sad.”
“Damn kid,” I say, marching into the house.
“You give . . . lonely vibes.”
Who does that kid think he is? Lonely vibes? Lonely vibes, my ass. And what kind of elementary school kid says things like that?
We’re gonna have to have some boundaries around here.
I grab a beer from the fridge and carry it into the living room. Instead of figuring out what I’m having for dinner, I plop on the recliner and flip on the television. I don’t bother finding a program to watch. That’s not the point.
The show makes noise in the house so it doesn’t feel so empty. It doesn’t seem as inviting for my thoughts to stray to things I don’t want to think about.
How will I survive, living by these people? One interaction with Carter and I’m afraid I’m going to crack. One interaction with Dylan and I want to whip him into shape. Every interaction with Gabrielle makes me want to have another.
Take a breath, Jay.
All that is superficial. I don’t really want any of it.
I don’t want to talk about my little girl. I don’t give a shit what Dylan does or does not do. And Gabrielle—I only think I want to see her again. Down deep, I don’t. Because I know what will happen if I do, and at the end of the day, being involved with anyone, let alone a woman with two kids, is the last thing in the world I’m interested in.
And that’s a fact.
I take a long pull of my beer.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I set my drink down and pull it out. The number shows the name of the owner of the farmhouse we’re supposed to start work on Monday.
“This is Jay,” I say into the line.
“Hey, Jay. This is Larry Harris.”
“Hi, Larry. What’s going on?”
“I have bad news. The permits for the remodel weren’t approved.”
My brows rise. “Really?”
“Yeah. I just found out. My wife went to pick them up this morning and was told there was a holdup. They said they’d call us on Monday to go over it.” He groans. “I’m sorry, Jay.”
I press my head against the chair and close my eyes. “Yeah. Me too. Keep me posted, I guess.”
“Absolutely.”
“This will throw off our schedule, but I’m sure you know that.”
“I do. Actually, is there any way we can set to start next Monday? To give me a week to get this fixed?”
“That’ll work. It’s not ideal, but I can make it happen.”
He sighs. “Thanks, Jay. Again, I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.”
“Talk soon.”
I end the call.
A whole week with nothing to do and new neighbors already getting under my skin.
I better find something to keep me busy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GABRIELLE
Come on in, Gabby,” Della calls from the other side of the screen door.
Laughter and soft music greet me as I step inside the small bungalow.
Della’s home is absolutely adorable and more feminine than I would’ve predicted. The white walls and ceilings are extra bright compared with the warm wooden floors. Instead of one giant chandelier overhead, there are five smaller lights. None of them match, yet somehow, they do.
The living area on the right is comfortably decorated with accents of pink and turquoise. A large art piece resembling paint thrown onto a canvas and smeared hangs above a slim fireplace. Ahead is the kitchen, where Della, Cricket, and a dark-headed woman I’ve never seen before are gathered around an island.
“Hey,” Della says, waving me in.
“There you are. I thought I would have to come and get you,” Cricket says, grinning.
“I argued with myself for ten minutes over whether I should bring something. Otherwise, I would’ve been on time.”
“Like I told you, the hostess takes care of everything,” Cricket says, her emerald-green blouse complementing her red hair perfectly.
Della smiles, looking up from a chopping board. “Besides, we don’t get fancy. Especially me. I keep it as simple as possible.”