Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I found myself almost nervous about his house, knowing that I was going to judge him based on it, and wanting to like it more than I should have.
All my worries flew out the door, though, when he unlocked the door and ushered me into a space that I immediately felt comfortable in.
It wasn’t flashy or showy in anyway. That wouldn’t have fit with the architectural style, which wanted you to feel homey.
The walls were white with a sage green accent on the bookshelves on either side of the brick fireplace. That green carried through to paint the walls of the kitchen that was dominated by a large island and warm wood tones to the cabinets.
It was masculine in the way that it felt a little old-fashioned, a bit rustic, but not in the way that it felt cold and uninviting.
Oddly, it just seemed to suit him.
I could picture him building a fire in the fireplace, standing in that kitchen making coffee, even reading one of the books in the cases.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Brock said, nodding. “It needs a dog.”
“Oh, is that what I’m thinking?”
“Unless you don’t like dogs. In which case, I think there must be something wrong with you.”
“I love dogs. I just… work too much.”
“That’s my hold up too. But, hey, you’re the boss. Get yourself a purse dog and bring it to the office with you.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” I admitted. “So, do I get a tour?” I asked.
CHAPTER NINE
Brock
I never had women in my house.
Save for my coworkers’ wives and Marg or friends, I didn’t invite women into my space.
Not because I didn’t want them to see it, but because it felt like a kind of sacred space to me, a place where I finally started to put my life back together, where I hoped to have a future one day.
It felt wrong to invite temporary people into that space.
Which had to be the only reason I was so uncharacteristically nervous about Miranda being there.
One could rationalize that it was nerve-racking because Miranda was someone with the kind of wealth that meant her apartment in the city was larger than my house in the suburbs.
I didn’t have priceless sculptures or vases. My art was bought off the wall at various coffee shops I’d been to across the country that featured pieces from local artists.
I didn’t have an interior decorator to show me what colors would work best, or what kind of furniture went with the house style.
In fact, I spent years learning how to renovate the place myself. If you looked closely, ninety percent of the books on the shelves flanking my fireplace were books on refinishing floors, building cabinets, doing your own brickwork.
Having that kind of project to focus on had made the transition for hiding in the woods, drinking too much, disassociating in front of the TV, just trying to do whatever it took to keep my mind from going to dark places.
It had been therapeutic. Like some part of me was working on myself as I worked on the house.
Between that, and gaining the purpose that having work again brought, I finally shook off all that shit that had been keeping me down for years, and found some peace and joy again.
It was why I was feeling so sensitive about it, why I’d made the comment about needing to get a dog. Because some part of me was more worried than I should have been about what she thought of the space.
I led her through the living room, the kitchen slash dining space, the small study in the back, then up the back staircase to the three bedrooms before heading back down to lead her onto the porch that overlooked the backyard.
“Wow,” she said, exhaling hard as she looked around.
It wasn’t a huge space. Not many people in Navesink Bank had big yards, save for the rich people in the fancier areas. But I’d busted my ass to make it feel bigger. And private, despite having neighbors.
There was a stockade fence all around the backyard with mature trees and some pretty extensive, but not overly fussy, landscaping.
There was a hammock hanging between trees, a fire pit with Adirondack chairs, and a grilling and picnic section.
“It almost makes you want to take off your shoes and sink your feet in,” she said.
“Go ahead then,” I invited.
“I said almost,” she said, shooting me a smirk over her shoulder. “I really like your house. It feels very warm and inviting. I can imagine curling up in front of the fireplace when it’s snowing outside with a cup of coffee and some music playing.”
“That’s exactly what I was going for. Cozy winter vibes inside, and lazy, relaxing summer vibes out here.”
“Well, you nailed it. If your career as a private investigator ever becomes unfulfilling, you could fall back on an interior decorating career.”