Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Thanks.” The plate had lightly buttered toast and an oatmeal cookie. A mug of minty-smelling herbal tea accompanied it. Picking up the cookie, I gave it a sniff. “Is this your mom’s recipe?”
“Yep. Oatmeal cranberry.” Holding his own mug of tea, Sam sat next to me. “But it was your mom’s recipe first.”
“Oh.” I took a tiny nibble, chest tightening around a wave of memories, all the cookies I’d eaten right here in this spot. Ginger. Molasses. Chocolate Chip. Oatmeal. My favorite was iced sugar cookies. Setting the cookie aside, I tried the toast. Perfect. Not too crispy, not too raw. A different sort of memory, me sick with colds and sniffles, Mom bringing me trays of food while I was surrounded by piles of pillows and books. Another bite and I was back in the present, Sam looking earnestly on, hands wrapped around his cup of tea. I swallowed slowly to save my stomach and to gather my thoughts. “I’m not sure of the last time someone was this nice to me.”
“Then you’ve been hanging around the wrong people.”
“Probably.” I had to agree with him there, based on the way my contacts had dwindled to zero as soon as I couldn’t afford the lifestyle.
Sam yawned and then covered his mouth. “Sorry.”
“You should go to sleep.” If he could order me around, I could do the same. I might not have cookies and tea to offer the guy, but I could at least make sure he got some rest.
“Nah. I’m going to keep an eye on you until we can get you into the doctor in the morning.”
“You don’t have to stay up and watch me all night. That seems like overkill.” My pulse sped up. Not anxiety precisely, more like I had no idea how to be cared for like this. I was supposed to be in my car, heading nowhere, not drinking tea with an all-grown-up Sam Bookman, who’d apparently appointed himself my guardian angel.
“Leaving you on the couch seems like a recipe for disaster.” Turning, Sam peered past the kitchen toward the front of the house and the lumpy, bumpy old leather couch. “I’m half tempted to make you sleep upstairs next to me. At least I have a decent bed, and we might both catch a little rest that way.”
I made a high-pitched noise that startled Buttercup from where she was dozing by my foot. “You’d share your bed with a stranger? Bad enough you leave the house unlocked.”
“You’re not a stranger, Worth.” Sam’s tone was matter-of-fact as he cleared my now-empty dishes. “And it’s sleep, not my savings account. Let’s get you a shower and some pajamas you can borrow. It’ll be fine.”
“Says you,” I muttered. Nonetheless, Buttercup and I dutifully followed him to the stairs. The distant sound of fireworks outside added to my unease.
Yap. Yap. Buttercup barked at the stairs.
“Maybe she doesn’t know how to do stairs.” Scooping her up, Sam made it to the landing before he turned back toward me. “Coming?”
“Yeah.” I took each stair slowly, deliberately. My gut churned, and for once, it wasn’t the food. This was Sam’s house now. Of course he had a room and a bed here. Likely the same room that had been my parents’, a thought that made bile rise in my throat. Trying not to vomit, I shook my head and almost missed Sam turning toward the third flight of stairs.
“You live in the attic?” While the third floor was nominally finished, it was a dusty, musty space storing outdated items and holiday decor. I’d always had a weird fascination for the attic rooms, the one spot in the house that wasn’t perfectly clean and organized. I’d hunted for hidden treasure and snuck into dark closets. I’d also carted up stacks of books to read while gazing out the dormer windows at my tree. In my early teens, Holden and I had wrestled an ancient couch up the stairs, and we’d hooked up an equally aged TV set and a gaming console. It had been our hideout, and I’d spent many hours on that sofa, staring up at the ceiling.
Sam paused to flip on a warm amber light. “This is my suite now, and it’s currently the nicest bathroom in the house. Thought you might appreciate the…newness of the space.”
“Yeah.” I exhaled, not hiding my relief at not having to deal with either my parents’ room or my old bedroom. And Sam was right. This space was new, untainted by old memories. What had been multiple smaller rooms and closets was now largely one open space, dominated by a big bed with white bedding worthy of a luxury hotel and an alarming assortment of plants in front of the windows. Fluffy rugs underfoot and built-in shelving completed the transformation. “This is…” Nice felt too tepid, a word better suited for bland guest rooms, not this clearly personal retreat. “Lovely.”