Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
“Hi, Mom. Busy day?”
“It has been. Things just finally slowed down. I have a message for you from earlier. This is the first chance I’ve had to call.”
“A message for me? From who?”
Even though I’d grown up in Ashford, I hadn’t stayed in touch with many people. I would say hello when I saw them in town, but we never hung out or anything.
“Landon.”
“Landon? Why?”
“I told him you were a writer, and he asked if you could call him. He wants to brainstorm or something. If he talks to you about a new book, you have to spill the beans, please? You can trust me.”
“Wait. Did you say writer or reporter?”
“Tara! For goodness’ sake, what is the difference?”
Well, for starters, Landon wouldn’t want to talk to a reporter. Or at least I didn’t think he would. If he thought I was a writer, though, that would be different. She continued before I could respond.
“I’m certain I said you were a writer. Is that okay?”
“It’s fine, Mom. Did he give you a number?”
“Oh, yes. Hold on.”
She rattled off the number, and I wrote it on the back of my receipt from the bookstore. Hanging up, I was shocked. This man had been secluded for ten years, clearly not wanting to interact with anyone but his closest confidants. And now he wanted to chat with me? The thought excited me for more than one reason.
It was great, obviously. Him asking to talk with me played into my plan perfectly. So much so, I almost felt guilty for the second time in an hour.
After I said goodbye to Mom and hung up, I bit my lip. How did I want to play this? Should I text him? Call? Which seemed less desperate? I shook my head. I shouldn’t be worried about that. He asked to talk to me, not the other way around. I stood up, busying myself with some more unpacking. After I’d refolded the same shirt three times, I knew I needed to bite the bullet. I dialed the number, reminding myself to breathe. Surprisingly, he answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Um… hi. Sorry. It’s Tara Foley. My mom said I should give you a call? If this isn’t a good time, I can call later. Or you can call me. It’s up to you.”
I stopped, very aware I was rambling. I bet he was regretting handing out his number right about now. I listened, hoping he was still there.
“Tara. Thanks for calling. You have perfect timing, actually. Your mom mentioned you were a writer. I’m not certain you know who I am, but I would love to talk with you about your process if you wouldn’t mind? I’m struggling to gain my footing again. It’s not something I like to talk about, but you were easy to talk to yesterday. And being a writer, I’m sure you can relate.”
I pulled the phone from my ear, biting my fist. This was perfect! Just the information I needed for my story, and I hadn’t even approached him! Hell, the story was practically writing itself! I counted to five, making sure I didn’t sound too excited when I answered.
“I would love that. When would you like to meet?”
“Well, that’s the perfect-timing part. I was just invited to a get-together. I can bring someone, but the only people I’ve met are you and your parents. Asking you seems less awkward. I don’t suppose you’re free tonight? It would be great to go with someone I have something in common with. You know, in case it’s boring.”
Ugh, him thinking I was a writer like him was probably going to bite me in the butt. In this day and age, the paparazzi had given reporters a bad name. That and all the politics attached to most reporting outlets. Most writers would cringe if someone thought they were a reporter. I couldn’t focus on that now, though. I had to take any opening I could grab.
“Sure. I’m free.”
It wasn’t lost on me that I also didn’t want to pass up spending time with him. The way his blue eyes had lit up yesterday, he’d been easier to talk with than I’d imagined. Down-to-earth. Not at all like the person who’d hogged the spotlight pre-accident.
“Great. It’s a bonfire. I don’t know if I said that. I can pick you up around 7:00. A little later if I get lost. I’m still learning my way around town.”
“Sure. I’ll text you the address.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you tonight.”
I hung up, practically floating back to my bed where my laptop sat. I knew exactly what bonfire he was talking about. I’d never been—apparently, invitations weren’t easy to come by. Last time I’d been in town, I met up with an old friend, Mina. She and a guy she’d been seeing were regulars at the bonfires. Pulling out my phone, I texted her quickly, wondering if she would be there tonight.