Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
We reach the stairs of Connor’s townhouse at the same time. The red brick and black shutters on the façade are synonymous with Beacon Hill. His black lacquered door sits stoically waiting for us, but we stay at the bottom of the steps, facing one another.
Natalie reaches up to take out her AirPods. I’m curious what she listens to while she runs. Taylor Swift? Black Sabbath? There’s still so much I don’t know about her.
“How far did you go this morning?”
“Five miles. I would have kept going, but…”
But what? She saw me? Did she spot me farther back than I thought she did?
She rolls out her leg. “My knee was bothering me a little.”
Ah. I glance down at it, my brows furrowed.
“Do you know Dr. Rygar? He’s an orthopedic surgeon at the hospital. It might be worth getting an appointment with him.”
She shoots me a teasing smile. “Not everything can be fixed with surgery.”
Says one surgeon to another.
“But he would have good advice for you,” I prod, not wanting her to ignore an injury if it’s causing her that much pain. “He could pass along the name of a reputable physical therapist, at least.”
She shrugs. “You’re right, but I’ve already seen him. Noah recommended him last year, actually. He gave me a cortisone shot and sent me to a PT, which has helped a lot, but I still can’t run the same distances I used to.”
She seems defeated by the notion that she might not have any marathons in her near future.
“You know, for most people, five miles isn’t a stroll in the park,” I point out, brow arched.
She glances over my shoulder, down the street. “True, but I’ve always enjoyed longer runs. They’ve helped keep me sane the last few years.”
I get it. We all do what we can. I use the gym the same way.
She inhales and then releases a heavy breath before turning up the stairs, waving me up after her. She pulls out a key from a tiny pocket in her shorts and unlocks the door.
“I didn’t realize you were moving in so soon.”
I shrug. “No choice. They’re packing up my place right now. It’s either here or a hotel.”
Inside, she tosses her key into a small dish on a table near the door and toes off her tennis shoes.
I stay poised at the threshold, wondering if Noah is home. I glance down the hall, but I don’t hear the TV on. Surely if he were here, he’d call out a greeting.
“I guess this works out better for Noah anyway, right?” she says, glancing sideways at me. “You’ll overlap with him so I don’t have to spend a single minute alone here in this house.”
“How do you mean?” She shoots me a pointed stare, and then it clicks. “Ah, right. He’s given me strict orders to look after you.”
She rolls her eyes and turns to head down the hall toward the large open area that contains both the kitchen on the right and the living room on the left. Centered in the space is an oversized antique wooden table Noah had his parents ship over from France. It anchors the room.
“It’s ridiculous,” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
I set my bag down near the door and walk after her, my focus steady on the row of windows that account for the entire back wall of the townhouse. Beyond the dining table, through the back windows, there’s a clear view of a narrow garden with a barbecue pit and overgrown trees. A winding shaded path leads out to the guest house, where Natalie lives. It’s tiny, no doubt functioning more like a studio than an apartment. It’s probably why she has to use the kitchen in here.
“What’d you tell him?” she asks. “When he asked you to do that?”
I turn to see her filling up a glass of water at the fridge.
“I agreed,” I say with a shrug. There’s no point in lying to her. “If it were me, I’d want someone looking after you as well.”
She looks at me oddly before swapping her puzzlement for a wide grin. “Oh yeah? Going to ensure I make my curfew? Keep tabs on my comings and goings? Ground me if I don’t comply?”
I nearly smirk. “There’s an idea.”
With her attention on me, she nearly overfills her glass of water before she realizes and jerks it away from the tap on the fridge. Water sloshes over the lip of the glass and soaks into her tank top. She groans and reaches for a paper towel.
“I assure you, I don’t plan on babysitting you.”
She’s flustered now when she replies, “Good. I mean, I’ll just stay in the guest house. I’ll be out of your hair as much as possible. We probably won’t be seeing much of each other, really.”