Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
It wasn’t only hello. I’m not so stupid that I believe that. He was telling me that he knows where I am… that he can still reach me… that he still has some hold over me.
But I’ve handled this on my own many times before. I don’t need to go running to Cole for help over nothing. I just need to go back to being alert, watching for Austin at the places I go and being aware of my surroundings.
Like not shopping with an earbud in.
It pisses me off that it’s come to this again. But I can manage. I always have.
Deep inside my mind, a tiny voice whispers… the clock’s ticking.
It is. Every other time Austin has found me, I’ve changed my routines, where I shop, where I get coffee, the routes I take, and ultimately… the job I was working. But I don’t want to leave this job. Not this time.
It’s different. Grace and Cameron are different, and I’m different with them. I swipe at my eyes, sniffling the tears away. I refuse to let Austin fuck this up for me. Not when I feel like I might’ve finally found a chance at a family, at a home, at a future.
A future.
The word echoes in my mind, sounding so unfamiliar. But no, that’s not it. I know the word. I’ve just never thought it applied to me. I really want it to, though, and I’m willing to fight to have one… a future with Cameron and Grace and the Harringtons.
CAMERON
“Okay, now what?” Grace asks after flouring the countertop and rolling pin—the rolling pin she’s holding in the air like a weapon of mass mess-making with a dust of white powder in the air surrounding her.
Riley glances over, holding her place at the stovetop where she’s stirring a big pot of chicken stock. “Lay a biscuit down and roll it out flat and thin like a pancake.”
Grace nods, instantly getting to work.
Riley seems a bit lost in thought compared to this morning, but that’s only natural given everything that’s happened. We both have a lot to think about.
I’m supposed to be making the salad, but I find myself simply staring at Riley as I replay last night… and this morning… over and over. And not only the sex parts, but the conversations, the way Riley looked at me, and how it felt to wake up with her in my arms.
I wasn’t looking for this. Certainly wasn’t looking for Riley, but that doesn’t seem to matter. She barreled right into my life, and into Grace’s, and made a space for herself. A perfect Riley-sized spot right in the middle of everything, and now it seems like it all revolves around her.
Like now.
She flits around the kitchen—here, there, and everywhere at once. Her bracelets jangle as she stirs the pot, swipes a cherry tomato from my salad, and pops it in her mouth before glancing over Grace’s shoulder approvingly at her progress with the dumplings. It’s amazing.
I’ve always thought this house was a home, with Grace and me as a complete family. But Riley brings so much life to it, making me realize exactly what was missing before her.
I meet her eyes in the window’s reflection, giving her a happy smile. There’s a moment, maybe not even a full second, where she doesn’t return it, and my heart drops, but then her lips mirror mine. And though my heart beats again, I’ve seen every smile in her repertoire enough to know there’s something off about her expression. She’s forcing it, slapping on a smile she doesn’t feel inside, and if there’s one thing Riley’s not, it’s fake.
I move beside her at the sink, washing my already-clean hands too, just so I can be close to her, and quietly, I murmur, “You okay?”
She finds my eyes, then glances back worriedly at Grace. She might’ve called me an overthinker, but it seems Riley’s the one doing too much thinking right now.
“Everything’s good,” I tell her. Though she doesn’t seem certain, she nods. “Salad’s done. Where do you want me now?”
“Can you help Grace with the dumplings?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I’ll do anything she wants me to do. As it is, I’m fighting hard to not sweep her into my arms and reassure her that it’s all going to be fine and she doesn’t need to freak out.
My, how the tables have turned, I think to myself.
Before, I was the one panicking. Now, she is.
I move next to Grace and see a smudge of flour on her cheek. Part of me wants to wipe it off, but I don’t dare interrupt her biscuit rolling when she’s taking it this seriously. I don’t think I’ve seen her this hardcore with a rolling pin since she was playing with Playdoh as a toddler, and she’s made eight big, flat, thin circles of dough.