Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“Are you sure you don’t want your old room, Weston?” Hope eked its way into Ava’s tone.
I brushed my hair back and slowly looked up, but whatever optimism I had left ran screaming at the look in Weston’s eyes.
“I’d rather die.”
He meant it.
Ava’s shoulders sagged.
Okay. This was fine. We’d have to move to A-basin, or maybe down to Keystone. It was thirty minutes away on a good day, and Sutton might have to switch schools, but it was better than going all the way to Frisco. The rent was going to devour my savings, but we’d make it work. We always did. I’m going to lose my down payment money.
“And like I said, it’s not you, Ava,” Weston continued. “I’m sure you’re great. Hell, you must be some kind of saint to put up with my brother’s bullshit. But I just can’t live there.”
“It’s your home,” Ava whispered.
“It hasn’t been my home in fifteen years, and I haven’t lived there in eleven.”
Fifteen years. That was when his mother had died of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. I knew enough about the Madigan family saga to reference the timeframe. According to what Ava had told me the last couple of months, the only way Reed had managed to even get Weston back to Colorado was by asking him to start up the resort’s new heli-skiing operation.
An idea hit me. It was absolutely absurd and unrealistic, but it was all I had.
From what I knew of Weston, he was a good guy. Rumors were treated like gospel in a small town, and though many of those rumors circulated about the Madigan brothers, I’d never heard a bad thing said about Weston other than he was pretty much Madigan’s own Grinch, the silent, grumpy type.
I could deal with silent and grumpy.
And the doors locked to the separate wings upstairs, right?
Maybe there was a way to keep Sutton in her school, a way to save our down payment so I could keep house hunting.
“I might have a solution,” I said with a voice that sounded way stronger than I felt.
“Okay?” Weston’s gaze swung to me like a laser beam. No wonder he’d been in the military for years. He probably glared people to death.
I took a deep breath. “We could both live here.”
3
Callie
* * *
I placed a spiral notebook and fluorescent pink fine point Sharpie on the kitchen island, taking the same stool I had two hours ago when I’d proposed what could have been the most ludicrous idea known to man.
But he hadn’t shot me down.
He’d simply stared at me with that intense look of his, the one that made me feel like he could see beneath my words and faltering smile, and suggested we meet back here in a couple hours after we’d both had a little time to think it over and come up with some ground rules if we decided to go through with it.
Ground rules? I was still stuck on my pros-and-cons list of living with an actual stranger. Every pro I’d come up with for the situation had to do with stability for Sutton, and there had been only one con: I knew next to nothing about the man I’d just propositioned to live with me. But that was something I could remedy.
If this was the only way to keep Sutton in her school and my savings healthy enough to buy a house, then we’d make it work. I just had to think about the pros of Weston himself. Would it be awkward? Probably. But this wasn’t exactly the first time I’d asked him for a life-changing favor.
Weston pro number one: he’s already saved you once.
The front door opened and Weston walked in, his arms full of grocery bags. He shut the door with his foot.
“Can I help?” I asked, already sliding off the stool.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it,” he answered.
I liked that he didn’t smile, didn’t try to pretend this wasn’t weird as hell. It felt more…genuine. I kept my gaze on him as he moved toward me, setting the bags down on the counter gently.
Pro number two: he isn’t careless.
“I figured I might make us some lunch while we’re talking. Club sandwiches sound good?” He took the groceries out of the bag and laid them on the counter next to the stove. Deli meat. Tomatoes. Cheese. Lettuce. Avocado. Bread. “There’s plenty of leftover bacon that I didn’t burn.”
“You cook?” My eyebrows rose as I shifted in my seat. “I mean, that’s really nice of you. Yes, please. Sorry, I tend to say the first thing that pops into my head, and I babble when I’m nervous. Not much for a filter over here.” My lips tilted upward, and I clutched the bright pink pen.
“I actually prefer no filter. I’d rather know what someone is thinking over what they’d like me to think they’re thinking. And I’ve been cooking since I was sixteen.” He checked the cabinets one by one, familiarizing himself with the kitchen layout. I hadn’t changed things much over the years, nor had I replaced much of the Madigan-supplied kitchenware. “Though I’m not sure I’d qualify throwing TV dinners in the microwave for Crew and me really cooking. But I’ve picked up a few things since then.” He opened the small closet that served as a pantry. “Is cooking something you enjoy?”