Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I survey the mess. It would be easier if I had a ladder, but without even looking in this tiny house, I know no such thing exists. There’s no consideration given to just leaving it alone and asking one of the guys to get it; both have several inches more on their reach.
So I improvise. I open the top freezer door, knowing there is nothing in there but two ice cube trays. The guys don’t grocery shop, and what I buy is only for the meals I intend to make that night. Mostly we all eat out because Lucas and Van are only here 50 percent of the time and it’s no fun cooking for myself.
With the door open, I shiver as the cold air hits me in the chest. I stand on my tiptoes and raise my right leg, intent on putting my knee just on the inside edge of the freezer so I can haul myself up a little higher to get the wall behind the appliance.
What happens next is almost too unreal to believe. It’s a comedy of errors and a lot of fucking bad luck.
The minute my knee rests on what I think is a solid purchase inside of the freezer and I start to pull myself up, the refrigerator door actually gets pried open. This is because my knee dips into the sealed groove above the door and the seal isn’t all that great.
The movement of the door opening causes a minor freak-out, including my other leg kicking out, causing the chair to skitter away. This causes the refrigerator door to open even more, and as I start to slip down, I instinctually—with very bad instincts, apparently—grasp on to the open freezer door to stop my fall. I’m not heavy by any means—just 125 pounds on my five-eight frame—but it’s apparently heavy enough to topple a fridge.
My instinct—which, yep, still fucking sucks—is to hold on tighter to the door. This does nothing to help me but certainly helps the fridge to lean forward.
Then it falls, with me underneath it.
I have visions of how my obituary would read.
Simone Fournier, age twenty-two, died when a mostly empty refrigerator/freezer combo crushed her to death as she foolishly tried to clean lasagna off the walls. She’s survived by the rest of her family, all of whom are inherently smarter than she is.
When I’m about three quarters of the way into the fall, the appliance coming at me fast, I manage to release the door and thud to the floor. I also manage to roll over, bringing my hands over my head as I prepare for death.
The resulting crash seems to shake the entire house, and the noise is so loud I’m sure someone will call 911 so they can remove my body before Lucas gets home.
But then I feel nothing, other than a sharp pain in my back where I think I landed on top of the cleaning spray bottle.
I hesitantly open my eyes and roll to look above me.
The refrigerator had apparently caught the kitchen table, which buckled under the crushing weight, collapsing two of the legs. The heavy wooden top caught the floor at an angle, and stopped the fridge inches from crushing me.
“What the ever-loving fuck?” I hear Van roar as he comes crashing into the kitchen.
My heart is still pounding madly from my near-death experience, but to prove the power of Van Turner and his magnificence, my brush with death is completely forgotten as I take him in.
I knew his body would be spectacular. Thickly muscled chest with a light dusting of hair that indicates he’s all man and not a boy. He’s breathing hard because I’m sure the crash scared the shit out of him, and that makes his abs contract inward as he exhales. I almost sigh at the ridges that are formed, but then I’m taking in the fact that his briefs are tight, and although he’s completely without any morning wood, he is still very well endowed in his natural state. My eyes even slip lower, taking in strong, powerful legs, and God…even his feet are hot.
My eyes move back up his body and there’s no doubt I woke him up from a sound sleep. His eyes are barely open, slightly glazed, and his hair is sticking up all over the place.
“Jesus Christ, Simone,” Van mutters as he drops to his knees to peer at me under the fridge lying atop the broken table. “Are you okay?”
“I think a spray bottle may have fractured my spine,” I groan as I try to roll over in the small space to get off it.
“Don’t fucking move,” he orders me, and I obey without question. “If you’ve got a spine injury—”
“I don’t,” I assure him as I start to wiggle.
“Stay the fuck still,” he bellows at me, his expression a mask of acute worry.