Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 74898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“I could,” I agreed, happy that she was semi-on board for this new venture.
Though she hadn’t said as much. She was still upset about leaving her house, where her daddy had made her a bed and painted her room, to be overly excited about this new one.
My stomach clenched at the memory of that bed.
I’d helped with the bed, of course, but only enough as to offer Tunnel help where he needed it.
He’d made her an exact replica of a princess bed.
It had huge columns that represented turrets, and a peak on top of the built-in bookcase that resembled a roof. Then there was the paint—that was a masterpiece in and of itself.
It was painted gray, and Tunnel had painstakingly painted darker gray blocks on the entire expanse of the wood walls of the bed, making it look exactly like a castle would look if you were staring at the exterior.
And the icing on the castle-bed cake was the tiny flagpoles at the top of each bookshelf with pink streamers flying from them that blew in the breeze of the room’s ceiling fan.
“Well, let’s go inside already,” Sienna grumbled under her breath, another thing she did like her father.
“Okay, honey,” I agreed, fishing the keys out of my pocket.
My eyes lit on a tiny dot of pink on the top of the key, and my heart skipped a beat.
That had also been something that Tunnel had done for me.
I had a ton of keys. One to my house. One to my car. One to Tunnel’s truck. One to the storage shed. One to the trailer lock. One to the trailer. And so the list went on.
After about the fortieth time that I’d had to go through all the keys on my key ring—and yes, I was more than aware that they were all different looking—Tunnel had put dots on all of my keys, color coding them to coordinate with the locks.
I still had the colors on my key rings, though I had to refresh them every couple of years since Tunnel had done it.
That had been a heartbreaking moment, and surprisingly, one that had sent me into a tailspin of depression that took a while to climb out of.
If it wasn’t for my daughter, Tunnel’s daughter, I’d be doing a lot worse than I was doing right now.
I heaved myself out of the car and walked up to where Sienna was waiting impatiently by the carport door, looking at me like her father used to: with bemused impatience.
“Sorry, baby,” I apologized, slipping the key into the lock.
It turned easily, and I pushed the door open.
The alarm by the door immediately started to beep, and I typed in a code to turn it off.
“How did you know the code?” Sienna asked as she pushed past me.
“Silas gave that to me along with the keys,” I answered, not willing to admit that the code was another number that was heart stoppingly familiar.
The anniversary of when Tunnel and I met. It was just four numbers, but those four numbers, 0804, would be forever etched in my brain.
Though it was a coincidence, I didn’t wish to examine it any further because it made my heart hurt, so I walked into the living space and stared.
“This house is tiny,” Sienna murmured.
I looked around at the sparse house. It wasn’t bad. She was right, though. It was sort of small. But since it was only her and me, it would be just fine. Especially since it had three bedrooms.
Sienna walked down the hall to explore, and I walked over to the countertops.
They are lovely, I thought, as I ran my hand over them.
A memory assaulted me, too fast for me to brace for it.
“Babe,” Tunnel said, standing in the middle of the cabinet department at Home Depot. “This is your domain, not mine. If you want black fuckin’ countertops, we’ll get you black fuckin’ countertops.”
My mouth dropped open. “Tunnel Angelo Morrison! You did not just say that to me.”
My man grinned, and acted like he hadn’t just committed the biggest faux pas any man could commit.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Minnie. I was just telling you to get what you want, that’s all.” He held up his hands.
I continued to glare, even though I really wanted to laugh instead.
This man of mine, he didn’t care if what he said was considered ‘politically correct.’ All he cared about was getting his point across.
And I cared that Tunnel was my man. I didn’t care that he could be crass and so bluntly honest sometimes that he often came off as an asshole. This man of mine just didn’t sugar-coat things, and frankly, I was glad that he didn’t.
It was important to me that one always be truthful, even if it would hurt less to lie.
Such as right now.