Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Hence pub. Public house. It’s a gathering place.
“Somewhere comfortable,” I go on, “where the music’s not too loud and the food is good. The atmosphere feels like you’re in a book. A fireplace and wood everywhere—the furniture, the bar, the walls.”
I gaze around the living room, her body warm under my fingers. She’s soft. More so in the thighs, and I like it. I can feel the ribs in her back. I never noticed that before.
I smile a little, continuing. “The customers are as good as friends, and it’s mine. Someplace kind of sleepy except on Saturday nights when there’s live music and the floors are shaking as everyone sings along. People to talk to. People happy to be there. Happy to see you. That’s a job I would like.” I look down at her. “And then I’d come home to someplace quiet. Someplace like this that’s mine, too, and I’m alone and …”
I hold her blue gaze.
“Someplace I’m alone and …”
And I don’t have to smile if I don’t want to.
But I don’t say that out loud.
“Macon wouldn’t want to hear any of that,” I admit. “That sometimes I want to leave. He’s nearly killed himself keeping our family together. Dallas would piss all over my dream, and Army and Iron don’t need to hear my whining. You’re the only one I’ve told.”
She stares at me, and I fall silent.
Did I make it weird?
I’m not sure why I told her.
“I don’t think I’ve ever held you like this before,” I tease.
“It wasn’t that kind of relationship.”
Yeah. We shared meals. Takeout on the way back to my place. Breakfast the morning after sometimes. This is probably one of the longer conversations we’ve ever had. Talking wasn’t what we wanted each other for.
“I’m glad you left my bedroom the other night.” I set her on her feet. “I think it takes everyone some time to figure out what they want and what they’re worth. Some people spend years settling for something, because it’s better than nothing, before one day we finally realize that it’s actually not. Nothing is better than the wrong thing.”
Wrong things kill our insides.
She stands there, still looking up at me, but her hand hasn’t left my neck.
“It’s a winter place,” I finally explain, gesturing to the house. “Fred Corcoran and his wife come down here from Boston every November before Thanksgiving, but I saw some of the staff here a few days ago, cleaning, laundering sheets, and stocking the fridge in preparation for their arrival.”
I move her hand down into mine and pull her along, back into the foyer, toward the kitchen.
“I got a key a couple of years ago to check in on the cat when they took a weekend away,” I tell her over my shoulder, “and they never asked for it back, so …”
“There’s no alarm system?”
“I guess with the security detail cruising the neighborhood they figured they didn’t need one.”
“And, of course, you have free rein to come and go,” she says more to herself than me.
As a landscaper, absolutely. No one looks twice if my truck is on the street. Or in this very driveway.
She stops and turns to me. “Would you really live here alone? Forever?”
It seems so unlike me. I love everyone, right?
I hook my arm around her neck. “I think that’s why I liked you so much,” I tell her in a low voice. “You seem the same whether you’re around people or not. You never put yourself away.”
I do. A lot.
Her mouth opens like she wants to ask something, but I just laugh, planting a smile on my face. “It’s just a fantasy, Krisjen. I won’t ever leave the Bay. Except to go to Orlando,” I add. “I would love to go to Disney World. Have you been?”
“Huh?”
Of course she has. They probably have a condo.
We walk into the kitchen, the light from the fridge brightening Army’s face as he pulls ice cream out of the freezer. The kids sit at the island, and I start pulling toppings out of the cupboard, knowing where everything is.
“Do you live here?” the boy asks. “I thought you all lived in trailers or something.”
“Mars …” Krisjen chastises.
But I nod. “We do. We’re just breaking and entering.” Then I lean down to Paisleigh, pressing my finger to my lips. “Shh …”
She goes wide-eyed.
“They don’t live in a trailer,” Krisjen tells her brother, pulling out mugs and spoons.
I pull off the lid off the ice cream and start scooping. “We live in a humongous …”
“Amazing …” Army adds.
“Incredible …” Krisjen points out.
“Dilapidated …” I tell Mars.
“And rotting …” Army jokes but not really.
“Mansion.” I drop a scoop of ice cream into a mug.
Army passes behind me, grabbing his kid, who is climbing across the counter. “There are holes in the walls,” he says.
“A leaky roof,” I go on.