Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
My brain hits the brakes like it’s two seconds away from causing a fifty-car pileup on a busy interstate.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Norman Wallace.” He flashes a proud smile. “Better known as the man responsible for brightening up our bridge to the tune of sunny yellow.”
I can’t focus on his bridge admission or the reality that it makes zero sense for a town called Red Bridge to have a yellow bridge. But that’s probably because I’m too busy trying to understand why this is the second Norman Wallace I’m talking to today.
“Your name is Norman Wallace? Like, that’s your whole name?”
“Well, technically, it’s Norman Albert Wallace, but yes. That’s my…name.” He searches my eyes like he’s wondering why I’m one crayon short of a full box.
I don’t have to be born yesterday to figure out the odds of having two Norman Wallaces in a town this small are next to zero. Instantly, my eyes dart to the door, furiously seeking out the first Norman Wallace I met all of ten minutes ago, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“You okay, darling?” the mayor asks after I’ve managed to stand here for a good ten seconds just staring out the door, and I quickly clear my throat and push a half smile to my lips.
“Peachy.” I grab an empty cup and write the name Norman on it for the second time today. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll have your coffee ready.”
His smile showcases a what-is-happening-right-now? uncertainty, and it makes me kick my ass into gear. Cup in hand, I fill it three-fourths of the way with coffee, but the more I think about that muscly dickhead, the more I feel irritation vibrating under my skin.
I cannot believe that rat bastard gave me a fake name. And not just any name, but the name of the freaking mayor of Red Bridge, who thinks I’m on glue because, when he told me his name, I looked at him like he’d just told me his penis recorded a duet with Mariah Carey that’ll be releasing next year.
I let out a deep exhale and add sugar and cream to the mayor’s coffee, stirring it with annoyed twirls of my hand. The coffee forms a liquid tornado, and I silently curse out fake Norman Wallace for setting me up to look like a moron.
“So, you’re Josie’s sister?”
“I am.” I force another fake smile to curl my lips and glance over my shoulder at the real Norman Wallace while I secure a lid over the steaming cup of coffee that’s been doctored to his liking. “And I apologize again for not being able to make the cappuccino.”
“That’s okay,” he comments with a friendly smile. “Maybe next time I come in?”
“Fingers crossed.” I smile hopefully, even though my only real hope is that this isn’t a regular thing. When it comes to getting back on my feet, I didn’t picture working in my sister’s coffee shop and disappointing customers on a daily basis as my big comeback moment.
“So, there will be a next time?” he questions as I slide the paper-sleeve-thingie over his cup so he doesn’t burn his hands. “As in, you’ll be staying in Red Bridge for a while?”
As I turn on my heel, the sound of the bell grabs my attention before I can answer his question or give him his order. And the person striding in shakes my equilibrium to the point that I have to reach out with my free hand to steady myself on the counter.
The very last person I want to see here, there, or anywhere is here.
Thomas.
What in the toxic Dr. Seuss is going on here? How did he find me this quickly?
Nausea curdles in my stomach like sour milk as my ex-fiancé advances to the counter and stops right beside Mayor Wallace.
“Hello, Norah,” Thomas greets, his voice barely playing at pleasant. It’s stiff and rigid and makes a shock of goose bumps roll up my spine. If we didn’t have an audience, it wouldn’t even have an edge of well-mannered, I’m sure. But, as always, Thomas is far too rehearsed not to perform the part of a politician, even when he’s talking to the woman who left him at the altar.
“W-what are you doing here?” My mouth stutters over my words, and my fingers dig deeper into the counter as I try like hell to keep myself standing. Something about how calm he is downright terrifies me.
“You gave me no choice,” he says through a tight jaw. “Since you won’t answer my calls or texts, I had to resort to other methods.”
I didn’t answer his calls or texts because I hoped I’d never have to face him again. Or my mother, for that matter.
“H-how did you know I was here?”
“It’s not hard to find you when Eleanor and Carlton are still footing your cell phone bill,” he retorts. His smile is a nonverbal checkmate.