Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Campbell (age 19)
Campbell—
Sucks to be us.
Slade (age 20)
17
Campbell
Rain beads down the arched glass windows that separate the primary suite from its sweeping terrace. The mid-day sky is ominously dark and flashes of lightening intermingle with rumbles of thunder. Fiona met me with an umbrella when I arrived in the circle drive hour ago, ushering me inside as she told me April is one of the rainiest months here.
I haven’t seen or talked to Slade since he cut our visit short last month.
We were laying on a blanket under the stars after spending a full day ambling around together and attempting to connect when he suddenly announced he had a work emergency and had to leave early. I assumed he meant he’d fly out the next day, except he flew out that night. The second we returned to my parents’ home, he packed his things, called his pilot, and left for the airport.
What’s curious to me is that all of that came on the heels of me asking him a couple of deep questions … would he have liked me if we’d met by chance? Does he ever wonder how his life would’ve turned out if it weren’t already planned for him? Of course he didn’t answer me. I ended up falling asleep thanks to the quiet and the lull of the ocean in the distance. Then I woke up to him saying we had to leave immediately.
Abandoning the window and the despondent gray-blue view outside, I attend to my suitcase, unpacking my things for the week. Except I’m halfway done when I realize a bottle of facial cleansing oil somehow became uncapped during the flight and spilled over half of my clothes.
Taking the armful of stained garments, I trot downstairs to the laundry room.
“Need something washed?” Fiona asks as she folds a stack of crisp white towels.
“My face wash spilled. Do you have any stain remover?” At home, my mother never taught me how to do laundry. We always had someone to do those types of things for us. It wasn’t until I went to Wellesley that I figured out the basics.
Fiona shoves her wiry glasses on the top of her head, examining one of my shirts. She runs her finger across the dark splotches.
“You said this is face wash? Why is it slick?”
“It’s oil based.”
Her thin lips press flat. “You can’t use ordinary stain remover for this. We’ll have to use dish soap. And it’ll have to soak. It’ll be a whole process, but I’ve never met a stain I couldn’t get out.”
She takes the shirt from me and motions for me to place the rest of the items on the counter.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that for me,” I say.
Waving her hands she says, “I insist. Besides, Mr. Delacorte is such a clean freak. I love a good challenge when I can get one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go,” she shoos me towards the doorway. “I’ve got this. I’ll have these washed and folded for you by the end of the afternoon.”
“Thank you so much.” I head out, feeling both guilty and grateful. I know Fiona’s job is to manage the house and everything in it and I’m no stranger to having help, but it’s not like I’m doing anything anyway.
I’m rounding the corner in the hallway when I bump into Oliver. I didn’t even know he was here.
“You again,” he teases, pretending to be annoyed. “Back so soon? Weren’t you just here a month ago?”
“Two months ago,” I say. I was supposed to come back with Slade after last time, but then his whole work emergency happened and he told me he’d figure everything out when he got back. By the time that happened, it was already April and now here we are. “What are you doing here? Come to borrow another car?”
“You know me too well.” He jangles a set of keys.
“Which one are you taking this time?”
“The Bugatti, obviously,” he scoffs.
“The Divo?” I ask. I only know what it’s called because last time I was here, I was bored one day and gave myself a tour of Slade’s car collection while he was at work. His ten-car underground garage is like a middle-aged man’s wet dream. Why one person needs that many vehicles is beyond me, especially when he works so much he hardly has time to drive them.
“That’d be the one.”
“Hot date?”
“Lukewarm date. They can’t all be like you,” he says with a wink.
I can’t tell if Oliver is just being Oliver … or if he’s trying to flirt with me. Last time I was here, he made a comment about me being ‘perfection’ when he thought I was out of earshot. But he’s never touched me, made a move, or made me feel uncomfortable, so I didn’t give it another thought.
“Then why go to the effort of borrowing Slade’s favorite car?” I lift a brow, ignoring his compliment. I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure Slade would kill him if something happened to that one.