Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
That has to mean something …
Unless he was just doing his due diligence as Grant Forsythe’s best friend.
I pour two cups, remembering that he takes his black. And when I turn to hand him his coffee, I’m taken back to that day at Atlantis, when we sat down together for the first time and the world around us faded into background noise.
At least it did for me.
“Grant told me he asked you to keep tabs on me while I’m here,” I say.
“He did.”
Wow. Just like that, he isn’t even going to try to deny it.
The wind is knocked from my lungs. My hand grips the mug until my palm burns.
“It all makes sense now,” I say. “Why you’ve been so helpful. So readily available. So willing to sacrifice your weekends keeping me entertained. Shame on me for thinking we had a connection.”
I take a sip and taste nothing but bitterness.
I don’t drink my coffee black, but I’m too grounded in the moment to flit about the kitchen grabbing sugar and creamer like some effervescent cool girl who doesn’t give a damn—because I do give a damn.
I liked him.
A lot.
And now I feel like a fool.
“We did have a connection,” he says. “We do.”
“How do you expect me to believe you when you just admitted Grant asked you to keep an eye on me?”
“Because he asked me,” Cainan says. “But I never agreed to do it.”
“So all that time we spent together, you did it because you wanted to?” Half of me wants to believe him. The other half has her heels in the ground.
His loyalty is to his lifelong best friend—not me.
For all I know, he’s trying his damnedest to keep this whole thing going for Grant’s sake.
He nods. “Yes.”
“How did you know about my chipped tooth?” I ask while it’s still fresh in my spinning mind.
He almost says something. And then he stops himself. “It’s … it’s going to sound crazy.”
I hook a hand on my hip, drinking my coffee. “Try me …”
“I’m going to need you to have an open mind.” He narrows his gaze at me, his tone colored in reluctance.
“Okay.”
Sucking in a deep breath, he begins, “Remember when you asked me about the craziest thing I ever did?”
I narrow my gaze, nodding.
“After my accident, I dreamt of you. I don’t know if that counts because I didn’t do it on purpose. It just … happened. But I did it. Technically speaking. I dreamt of you, Brie.” He watches me, maybe searching for a reaction. But I give him nothing. I need to see where he’s going with this. “We were on this beach together. We had two kids. We were married. And when I woke up, I knew things about you. Little things. Things I couldn’t explain. Your favorite authors, for instance. I knew them before you told me that day on the sidewalk.”
I draw in a slow sip of coffee before exhaling and wrapping both hands around the mug. “When you were in your accident … when we were waiting for the paramedics and you were clinging to your life … I held your hand and talked to you. I told you a bunch of random things about me … which is probably why you saw me in your dream and how you knew those things about me when you woke up. But that doesn’t explain how you knew about my chipped tooth … I didn’t tell you that.”
He doesn’t blink. “I told you. It sounds crazy.”
“It sounds crazy because it is crazy.”
“Give me a pen and paper.”
“Why?”
He motions his hand like he wants to draw something. “There was something else in my dream. Maybe you can make sense of it.”
I tug open the junk drawer, retrieving a small legal pad and a blue gel pen for him.
Without wasting a second, he sketches a small drawing, rips the paper from the binding, and hands it to me.
“Oh my God.” I take a step back.
“You need to go,” I tell him.
“What does it mean?” His hazel eyes widen.
“Now.” I point to the door. “Please. Go.”
“Brie … if you know what this means. You have to tell me …”
I blink through tear-clouded vision and swallow the lump in my throat, though I don’t particularly feel like I owe him an explanation. “My sister’s name was Karielle. My name is Brielle. A few months before she died, we were supposed to get matching ‘elle’ tattoos. I chickened out. She didn’t.”
My sister’s final Facebook photo comes to mind—Kari grinning, her cheek resting against the inside of her hand, her wrist facing the camera and her tattoo displayed in perfect detail.
I’ll never forget that image … or the pangs of guilt I feel over never following through with my end of our agreement.
My stomach twists. I’m going to be sick.
“I can’t believe you would do something like that,” I speak through clenched teeth and fight the wave of tears that threaten to fall. “After everything I told you …”