Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Move up my plans to sell the house and business.
Get that money in hand.
Then I could figure out the drug thing.
Decisions sort of made, I turned down my road, promising myself a calm evening where I was not going to obsess over the whole situation. Though, let’s face it, I was totally going to overthink it to death, work myself into a strong panic, and eventually fall into a fitful sleep.
But as I drove closer to my house, it seemed like there was going to be a change to my plans.
There was a car parked on the street out front.
A very familiar car.
With a very familiar man leaning against it.
Waiting, it seemed, for me.
I just barely resisted the urge to fly into the driveway, rush out of the car, and throw myself into his arms.
Of all the things I needed right then—food, sleep, answers, a break—what I really wanted most was a hug. Someone to wrap me up tight and tell me that everything was going to be okay.
But Santo, as much as I liked him, was not my support system. He was just a guy. Technically, one I was indebted to.
So I took my time getting out of the car and started down the driveway. “Hey,” I called, head tipped to the side in a silent question.
“Realized something when you didn’t call,” he said, pushing off his car and giving me a boyish grin. “I never gave you my number.”
“You didn’t,” I agreed. “You know, you could have called me at the shop to give it to me.”
“And miss an opportunity to see you in person? Nah.”
God, how did he manage to make my belly somersault so effortlessly? A few tossed-out words and I was all weak-kneed.
“I’m going to invite you in, but that invitation comes with a giant warning for how rough it still is inside,” I warned.
“I don’t even have lamps in my living room,” he said, shrugging.
“No?” I asked, lips curving up, impressed with how easily he wiped away days’ worth of stress. “Well, I have eight. None are working. But they’re… here.”
We walked up my front path, and I was suddenly painfully aware of all the cracked and uneven bricks, the way weeds were clawing their way up between them. Then, as we got to the door, I noticed how the storm door had a ripped screen and a half falling off, rusted handle.
Santo, in his designer suit and wristwatch that likely cost more than I paid for my car—I mean, that wasn’t saying much, but still—was going to look painfully out of place in the shabby little house.
But as I unlocked the door, there was no going back.
“It smells like clean laundry in here,” Santo said as soon as we stepped inside.
“I’m using fabric softener to take down the old wallpaper,” I explained, waving over toward my progress.
I had to admit, my many sleepless nights were letting me get more projects done than I’d expected. Considering all the fancy new stuff I had to stress about, I had a feeling that there would be a lot of progress on the house in my near future.
“You know, I had a hard time picturing a pink couch in a living room,” Santo said, nodding at the sofa in question. “But it works a lot better than I thought it could.”
“It will work even more when the walls, drapes, and the rest of the furniture are redone. Well, if that happens,” I said, putting my purse on one of the many tables in the main living space.
“Why if?” he asked, turning back, watching me with curious eyes.
“Oh, um, well, I’m still not sure I am going to be staying,” I admitted, busying myself with the coffee pot, wanting something to do, and figuring it was the appropriate thing to offer a guest. Unless he had a thing for the cheap beer my uncle kept in the fridge.
“Really?” Santo asked, moving over toward the G-shaped kitchen full of impressively ugly puke-green countertops, a floral backsplash, and yellow-hued cabinetry.
At least the cabinets were old enough to be real wood. A little sand and a better stain, and they would be lovely. Definitely a selling point.
“Why’s that?” he added, leaning over the counter from the living room side, watching me with those warm eyes. “The assholes at work giving you shit?”
“No. Well, yes. But that’s not really the only reason. I think I just… jumped without really giving it any thought.”
“And now you’re doing a lot of thinking?”
“Something like that.” He had no idea. And I couldn’t exactly tell him about it, could I? “I’m just… very alone here,” I told him, feeling those words like a crack in my heart. “It’s been a hard transition. And on top of that… all of this,” I said, gesturing vaguely.
“And getting knocked on your ass and then stolen from can’t be helping your anxiety about a new place.”