Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
As promised, Lucille had met me there bright and early with coffee in hand, ready to steamroll a contractor. However, when the crew hadn’t arrived by 7:05, she started blowing up their office. The same woman from the night before assured us that the crew was just running a little late. Ever the bulldog, Lucille called back every five minutes to check their status. I had to give her credit for persistency.
Around eight thirty, Dylan and Angela had surprised me with breakfast. Unwilling to admit my renovation woes already, I’d been avoiding their questions in our text thread. This was their not-so-subtle way of checking up on me. They brought donuts, so I didn’t complain.
It was now past nine, and despite all the promises from the contractor’s office, I was starting to believe the day was a wash.
“Hey, Gwen,” Angela called. “Whose jacket is this?”
My head whipped in her direction as she reappeared holding a black-and-gray raincoat.
Awesome. Just what I needed. The whole clusterfuck with Truett was not a subject I was eager to revisit. I didn’t know what to say even if I wanted to explain it. He’d begged to come inside. Sat in the rain to be nearby. And then, when I’d finally given in, he’d bolted. It made no sense whatsoever. And quite honestly, as he’d raced away, I’d kinda, sorta, maybe, absolutely taken it personally.
Had I done something or said something to upset him?
And if not, what did it say about me that in less than five minutes my potential stalker was already done stalking?
Yeah, okay. Maybe neither of us made sense.
But it was done. Over. He was fine. Or so he’d claimed.
End of story…ish.
“Uhhh. Yeah. That’s mine.” I slid out of the booth and tried to grab his jacket, but she turned, holding it out of my reach.
“You don’t wear a men’s extra-large,” she argued.
“I like my raincoats baggy. So what?”
“You do not,” Dylan said, snapping her fingers for Angela to pass her what had clearly turned into exhibit A in this interrogation. “Do you have a new man you aren’t telling us about?”
“What? No!” I defended. Diving forward, I banged my leg on the corner of the booth and almost knocked Angela over in an effort to prevent Dylan from getting her hands on it. For all I knew, she had an emergency DNA kit in her purse. I’d witnessed her track people down on Facebook with less information. That was one self-proclaimed detective I did not want to challenge.
She eyed me suspiciously. “Then why are you acting like such a weirdo right now?” As if a lightbulb went off in her head, all humor evaporated. “I swear to God, if that is Jeff’s jacket and that asshole was here, I’m going to lose my shit.”
Angela gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth, pure horror showing in her blue eyes.
I swung an incredulous scowl between them. “Seriously? Jeff? I’d rather amputate my own leg and then swim with sharks.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Lucille interjected. “The hot gargoyle’s name is Jeff?”
Dylan shivered. “Not if you’re calling him hot.”
Continuing the cacophony of confusion, Angela inquired, “Who’s the hot gargoyle?”
Lucille smirked. “The piece of man meat who was wearing that jacket last night. Did you happen to take off any more of his clothes? Because that’s the screw-and-tell I’m going to need to hear.”
And because there wasn’t enough chaos in that room, there was a knock at the door. Our heads turned in unison.
“About damn time!” Lucille exclaimed.
A lanky middle-aged man in jeans and a red polo with sunglasses propped up in his sandy-blond hair smiled and waved from the other side of the door. It wasn’t my contractor, but I assumed he was part of the crew. And even if he wasn’t, as long as he could wield a sledgehammer, I was about to put him to work.
As I walked to the door, I dropped the infamous jacket on the seat of Truett’s booth, praying for a little out-of-sight, out-of-mind reprieve.
“Hey,” I greeted, opening the door. “Are you here to start the demo?”
The man’s face was friendly and warm, like a father figure even though he wasn’t much older than I was. “Uh, no. I’m actually here to talk to you, Gwen. Mind if I come in?”
My eyebrows furrowed at his apparent familiarity. “That depends. Talk to me about what?”
He passed me a business card. “My name is Taggart Folly. I’m with Flat Line Productions. I was hoping I could speak with you about a documentary we’re filming on the Watersedge Mall shooting.”
A sharp breath lodged in my throat. It had been years since anyone had uttered those words to me. Most people spent a considerable amount of energy tiptoeing around the subject. Surely, I’d misheard him. “What did you say?”
His smile never faltered. “I’m sorry about showing up like this. We’ve been trying to reach you for quite some time. I went by your old address and Jeff Weaver told me you’d be here. I hope it’s okay that I stopped by.”