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)
No one owns me. Not Thomas. Not my mother. No one.
And no one is going to tell me what to do or say or think or feel. I am my own woman, dammit, and I’m going to create my own life where I get to make all the decisions and live the way I want.
Lesley is the perfect wingwoman, and I stroll through the grocery store mentally singing along with her. The refrigerator section is in the back, and I take my time getting there, winding through the aisles and even stopping in the magazine aisle to peruse a little.
It’s going extremely well…until it isn’t.
Right there, on the tabloid next to People magazine, is the only face I’ve ever been able to forget. Except now, it’s noticeably bruised.
I snatch the shiny paper off the shelf, turn to the page it suggests, and start reading.
Thomas King’s Mysterious Black Eyes
The young heir to King Financial was seen at Tavern on the Green last night, enjoying dinner and drinks with friends. Though, no one could miss the prominent black eyes and swollen nose on his face.
Which leaves all of us wondering—what happened to Thomas King?
“Ever since Norah Ellis left him at the altar, Thomas has been having a really rough time,” one inside source revealed. “And this just proves that nothing is right in his world. Honestly, I feel bad for the guy. First, the love of your life leaves you for another man, and then, you get in some kind of fight? It’s horrible.”
Left him for another man?
What a boot-licking, ass-kissing, tale-telling asshole.
Frustrated, I slam the tabloid back on the shelf and take off for the front of the store. I’m almost out the door when I see the want ads bulletin board for all the job postings in town.
With an even hotter fire burning inside me to make something of myself on my own and leave Thomas and my mother and stupid New York in the past, I scan through the push-pinned papers with fast eyes.
Shearing sheep on Tad Hanson’s farm, a teller at the Red Bridge bank, and an assistant manager at Earl’s—none of it is speaking to me.
I frown and pick through the other papers on the board until I finally find one that stands out as interesting.
A simple sheet of white paper with printed black letters—Artist’s Assistant Needed. Open Interviews Every Tuesday at 12 p.m.
No phone number. No name. Just an address.
Without hesitation, I pull my phone out of my back pocket and snap a quick picture of the flyer.
I’ll have to wait for Tuesday to check it out, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend even another minute thinking about Thomas King.
I turn to leave, but when I see a woman heading out the doors with a cart full of bagged groceries, I realize I’ve forgotten Josie’s request for milk of all kinds. And I can’t go back there empty-handed—she’ll kill me. Or, you know, at least try to interrogate me some more.
Quickly, I snag a cart from the row by the door and make a beeline for the back of the store. My music is still playing—“Another Day in Paradise” by Phil Collins.
It’s an oldie but a goodie, and I choose to embrace the vibe as I swing open the fridge door to grab the milk Josie requested. I even find myself shaking my hips a little when the chorus hits. I quickly check the expiration stamps on the whole milk and choose the two with the furthest out, before swinging them off the fridge shelf and down at my side.
I lift my foot to tap the door shut, but when I look up and see someone standing beside me, someone I definitely know, the balancing act of being on one leg with two gallons of milk hanging at my sides becomes impossible to juggle.
I start to fall forward, and the only way to stop myself from crashing to the floor is to grab the cart with my hand and steady myself. Alas, one jug of milk doesn’t make it in that scenario and hits the floor with a hard glug.
White liquid splatters out of the now-cracked plastic like a rushing wave on a flooded river and makes its way across the floor and right onto Bennett Bishop’s shoes.
Oy vey.
15
Bennett
Milky white liquid gushes across the tile floor of Earl’s grocery store and surrounds my brown leather boots until the soles are no longer visible.
I look at my boots and then back up at the horrified expression on Norah Ellis’s face.
“Oh my God!” she cries so loudly it makes my ears ring. “I’m so sorry!” she keeps shouting while she puts the one jug of milk she managed to keep off the floor into her cart.
Why on earth is she screaming? When I realize she has earbuds in, I point toward her ears. “How about you take those out, yeah?”