Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I wrinkle my nose in distaste but am thankful for the chance to make an escape, even if it comes with some too-personal information. “Thanks,” I tell her, and she smiles, shooing me away.
“The fifteenth, remember,” Mr. Suman tells me as we rush out.
Ben doesn’t ask where to go this time. He drives us straight back to the cottage, parking as close to the front door as possible. He looks around and, seeing nobody, says, “Inside.”
I follow him this time, holding his hand as we run for the door. Panting as we get on the other side of it, I clutch the food to my chest.
“That went well,” he says with a wry twist of his lips.
“Could’ve gone worse,” I counter. But my heart racing doesn’t feel so scary this time. It feels exhilarating, and I can’t stop the smile that stretches across my face.
I’m not crazy. I have lots of people rooting for me. One very important one by my side right now.
Curled up on one end of the couch, Rosemary’s delicious burger in my belly, I stare at my phone while Ben plucks random strings on his guitar. I don’t think he’s actually playing anything specific, more like he needs to keep his hands busy.
My voicemail is full, and there are dozens of texts—some from Roy but others from family and friends. I start with the safer ones: Joy, Shepherd, Mom, and Dad. And then I see their conversation in our family chat, typed when they were searching for me, where they’re openly—albeit theoretically, mostly—talking about killing Roy to defend my honor. Surprisingly, I wasn’t hiding under my bed according to Shep, which makes me snort-laugh.
“What?” Ben asks, his hands instantly freezing on the guitar. He’s been quietly watchful, giving me space to process while keeping a close eye on me from his perch on the other end of the couch. His attention makes me feel grounded, like the entire world as I’ve known it isn’t shifting beneath my feet.
“My brother. He searched under my bed to see if I was hiding there—‘like last time,’ he said. But last time was when I was a kid and got spooked after watching the remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street. I thought Freddy couldn’t find me if I was under the bed instead of in it,” I explain, laughing again at the memory. “But Shepherd did. He grabbed my ankle, and I basically went feral fighting back. I scratched my nails down his face, which served him right. But it was hockey season, and he had to wear a see-through patch over his eye for the next three games, earning him the nickname Uno.” I can’t help but smile at how irritated Shep was about that. Joy and I called him Uno long after his teammates had moved on from it. Come to think of it, I’m not sure what they call him now. Joy would know since she reports on the local team.
“So if I meet him, I should call him Uno?” Ben asks with a straight face.
“Definitely. He’d love that,” I answer, fighting to feign seriousness. “He probably wouldn’t beat you up or anything.” I grin, not able to hide it. As a hockey player, he fights for a living, throwing fists on a pretty regular basis. Still, I think he’d like Ben, and vice versa. There’s something rough and tough about them both, and I can imagine them tussling and then having a mutual respect for each other.
On the other hand, Shepherd has always hated Roy. He called him prissy, which I thought was more about Roy not being a puckhead. But maybe Shep was right and trying to warn me in a subtle way.
“What about Roy? Did he text or call?” Ben plucks a string, then another, but his eyes are fastened on me, reading every inch of my face and body language in a way that feels intimate.
Sighing heavily, I admit, “Yeah, but I haven’t clicked into them yet.”
“Play the first voicemail and the last. That’ll tell you everything you need to know,” he advises sagely. “Do it on speaker. I wanna hear the shitstain’s voice.” A tiny smirk lifts one side of his lips, daring me to hit play.
“Hope? Answer the phone. Look, sorry about the vows or whatever. I got nervous. Where are you?”
That’s the first voicemail. I watch Ben as it plays—seeing his eyes narrow when Roy mentions the vows, the way his head tilts as he listens closely, and the single brow lift at the end.
“First impression? The vows must’ve really sucked, because Joy mentioned them too. However bad they were, it’s not the kick-starter that made you run. You feeling trapped is. Your words, not mine.”
Well, hell’s bells and big tales, he’s 100 percent right on that. But having it thrown back in my face doesn’t feel good. Especially when I’d rather hide from that little truth.