Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 98961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I put Princess down and she follows me into the kitchen. The main area of the apartment is an open concept, with the kitchen and dining room opening to the living room. The ceilings have to be at least twelve feet tall, and the view from the living room alone lets me know this place isn’t cheap. We seem comfortable and happy here. There are two doors off a small hall by the kitchen. One leads to a half bath and the other to another bedroom, which is set up like an office.
Right. I’m an editor at Black Ink Press and Easton is working his way up from campaign manager to Ryan Arnold, my father’s political opponent. Easton has made a lot of headway lately, and Scott just last night tried to criticize him by saying he’s getting a majority of the female votes just because he’s good looking.
Easton and I had a good laugh about it last night over dinner. It’s what lead me to indulge in a second glass of merlot, and then I feel asleep going over the manuscript.
“I really shouldn’t drink past seven PM,” I tell Princess as I get a can of cat food from the pantry. I feed her and then go about the morning routine of starting the coffee pot and making smoothies for Easton and me to take to work.
“You coming?” Easton calls and I hear the shower turn on.
“Yeah, I’ll be right—” I drop a cucumber into the blender and stop. “What the hell is going on?” I ask out loud, looking around the apartment. Where the fuck am I? A sharp pain hits me right in the middle of my forehead, and suddenly it feels like my blood is on fire. I double over in pain, accidentally knocking a glass off the counter. It shatters to a hundred little pieces on the floor.
“Callie?” Easton comes running out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
I have one hand pressed against my forehead and the pain is slowly subsiding. “I don’t know. I got hit with a migraine out of nowhere.” I straighten up. “I think I’m okay now.”
Easton leads me away from the broken glass and then picks up Princess, moving her bowl into the living room. “Sit down,” he tells me, and I sink onto the couch. Something feels wrong, really wrong, but I can’t think of what it could be.
I’m safe in my apartment with my boyfriend. We both have good jobs, good friends, and love our life. Nothing is wrong.
“Maybe you should call your sister.”
“I don’t want to bother Abby. She’s probably busy with Penny or work.”
“Penny?” Easton looks around the counter. “Is that a girlfriend?”
“No, Penny is…” I trail off, unable to remember who Penny is myself. “I don’t know. Maybe a friend she mentioned.”
“I’m texting her,” he says over the sound of glass being swept up. “I’m getting worried.”
“No, I’m fine.” I get to my feet. “I, um, I don’t think I slept well.”
“You’re not yourself, Cal. Not at all. If you’re not feeling well, it is okay to take a sick day.”
“I can’t. Not today. It’ll be obvious I skipped because of the presentation.”
“You haven’t taken a sick day in a year. No one will think that.”
“Why the fuck haven’t I taken a sick day? I know I’ve been sick,” I mutter to myself.
“Tell you what,” Easton starts and empties a dustpan of broken glass into the recycling. “I’ll take a sick day too. We can say we got bad sushi last night and it made us both sick.”
Smiling, I look across the room at him. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I want to make sure you’re okay.” His eyes meet mine and my heart swells in my chest. “That’s the most important thing.”
“I’ll be fine. Can you finish breakfast while I shower? If that doesn’t clear my head, I’ll stay home. Promise.”
“Of course. I’ll get the Bento boxes packed too.” He comes over and kisses the top of my head before getting the vacuum from the closet. Rubbing my temples, I go back into the bedroom, stopping as soon as I go through the door. The feeling that something is terribly wrong is starting to fade, and instead I feel like I’m forgetting something. But again, I can’t figure out what.
As if I’m moving on auto pilot, I twist my hair into a bun, turn on the shower, and pick out an outfit for the day. I decide on a black pencil skirt and a matching jacket, with a dark maroon blouse underneath. I quickly shower, dry off, and get dressed. Then I go back into the bathroom and stand in front of my vanity, looking at my hair that I just pulled out of the bun. I plan to curl it, but the tool looks ancient to me. For some reason, I feel like it’s been years since I used a curling iron, but I don’t want to say that to Easton and make him worry.