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)
I crank the engine, which thankfully fires on the first turn of the key, strap on my seat belt, and take off down the road toward the outside of town. I don’t need directions this time; the route is burned into my brain.
When I turn onto Maple Avenue, which happens to be comprised of nothing more than dirt and gravel that’s now slickened by rain, the Civic fishtails so hard I end up spinning and facing the other direction. My heart throbs inside my rib cage, a mix of fear and resolve elevating my adrenaline to an eleven out of ten.
It’s raining harder now, coming in driving sheets that move from right to left instead of straight down, but I’m so far gone with determination, not even that can stop me.
I lift the hood of Lil’s hoodie back over my head and jump out of the car, abandoning it completely. In the distance, the big white house sits up on the hill, and I run the rest of the way to it, past the barn and up the drive until I reach the door.
I don’t wait to catch my breath, and I don’t even consider the fact that I have no idea who’s going to be on the other side. I need answers, and I need them now.
I want this job. Badly.
Scratch that. I need it. I’m not walking away from this with “No” as an answer. I can’t.
Fully soaked and shaking with the chill, I lift my hand to knock on the front door and pound until the light comes on in the hall. I can’t see anything clearly, thanks to the thin white curtains in the sidelight windows, but I know someone’s home.
Mustering every fiber of bravery I have, I knock harder, willing myself to take breaths as pounding footsteps sound on the other side of the deep blue door.
They’re getting closer and harsher, and holy shit, what if it’s an angry, scary man on the other side?
Immediately, I pull my knuckles away, and my throat seizes around a ball of panic.
Gah, Norah. Way to think this through!
My legs twist on themselves as I turn to leave, but it’s too late, I can tell by the sound of the door whipping open behind me.
“What in the hell is going—Norah?”
For as scary a scenario as I pictured of a stranger with a gun or a knife or a will to kill, the voice I hear behind me is infinitely more terrifying.
Oh my God. Don’t tell me that voice belongs to who I think it belongs to.
Slowly, I turn around, trying to catch my breath as I do, but it doesn’t get any better when I see his grumpy, gorgeous face. Bennett stands there, staring at me with bewilderment in his eyes and irritation on his lips.
“Hi, Bennett,” I say with forced dignity—like I’m not at all surprised to find him here. Like I’m not utterly floored that he’s the mystery artist. “Sorry to bother you at home.” I steady myself, refusing to shake my head at my stupid apology. “But I was wondering if you could find a minute to tell me whether I got the job or not.”
My skin feels clammy, and my heart may actually be seconds away from an explosion, but I steel my spine and roll my shoulders back like I’m not on the brink of demise from finding out that Bennett Bishop himself is the artist I interviewed to work for.
“I know you’re a busy guy and all, but I’m kind of trying to get my life started over here. And in order to start starting over, I need to know if I got the job. So do I have the job, or don’t I?”
He stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Seriously. I fear I might reach my deathbed before he responds, but then, he runs a harsh hand through his hair, lets out a deep sigh, and shocks the ever-loving shit out of me.
“You’re hired.”
Evidently, I’ve lost it, because I swear I just heard Bennett say I’m hired even though I’m standing on his doorstep uninvited, demanding answers while looking like a wet sewer rat. I’m pretty sure a psychologist would call these auditory hallucinations, and that would warrant an inpatient hospital stay.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve answered your question, and this is the part where you tell me your decision,” he states, his gaze locked with mine.
“What?” It’s all I can say.
“I just offered you the job. Now, you need—”
“You want to hire me?” I question, completely ignoring that he had more to say. “You want to offer me the job?”
He sighs again, but he also nods. A silent yes, but still, a yes.
“But why?” I don’t even think he likes me, and I know today’s behavior is completely outside of what he’s looking for more of in his life. But he’s offering me a job? Where he’ll have to see me every day? I don’t get it.