Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“Great.” He smiles broadly, and he looks younger now. It’s a good look for him. “Then let’s go.”
I look over at my car and then at his. He must understand what I’m asking because he nods to mine.
“Let’s take yours. If you don’t mind me driving. And then you can drop me off at the main office because I have work to do after this, and it’s closer to the main road.”
“Okay.” I reach out my hand and place my keys in his. With our fingers now touching, my body grows warm at the contact.
His lips tip up slightly, and I know he feels this, too.
What does that mean? I have no clue, but overthinking it right now won’t help me decipher his feelings. Tomorrow, when I’m back home, I can do that.
I sit down in the passenger seat, and he gets in the driver’s seat.
He looks way too big for my small car. His presence is imposing. He’s larger than life. A man like him shouldn’t be in something so tiny, but it doesn’t seem to bother him as he pulls out of the spot and makes his way to the street.
A few seconds later, he’s weaving his way through different streets until we’re on a road that is barely paved.
The car rattles, bumping up and down on the fresh gravel. Eventually, we pull off, and he throws the car in park. I turn my head, lifting an eyebrow. “There’s nothing here.”
He throws open his door, but before he rises completely out, he turns over his shoulder. “Just trust me.”
Doing as he says, I get out of the car and follow him. We head through thick brush where there is barely a path.
It looks like the type of place where he would take someone to kill them.
Is that what he’s doing?
A nervous laugh bubbles up out of my mouth.
Layla, you really have gone overboard with your imagination this time. You’re not here alone with him so he can kill you.
That being said, if this were a movie, this would be the perfect murder spot.
“No need for that face. It’s just up ahead.” Famous last words. In this flick, I’m the silly girl walking toward her death.
But just as I’m about to make a joke about which murder movie this scene is from, the path clears into a large meadow.
Holy hell.
Not only am I in the middle of a little patch of paradise, but there’s a picnic blanket set up in the middle of the field.
“What is this place?” I ask, eyes wide, pulse thumping.
“Where I go to think.”
I pivot to stare at him beside me. “And you’re bringing me here?”
“Most don’t know about this place . . .” He shrugs as if bringing me here isn’t a big thing. It’s huge.
“So, why are you showing me?”
“Because you aren’t just anyone, Layla.”
It feels like my wobbly knees can’t hold my weight. I take a seat, hoping that will help with my weak limbs. Cain sits beside me. The idea that a man like him would be sitting on a blanket in the grass has me shaking my head.
“Everything okay over there?” he asks.
“I’m still just shocked that you did this.”
He points at the basket. “You needed to eat.”
“I could have stopped by the café on the way out of town.”
“Then I wouldn’t have been able to say a proper goodbye.”
I turn my head to look away from him for a moment. A miserable attempt to rein my emotions in. I wring my hands in my lap, nervous energy coursing through me.
Words are heavy on my tongue. I want to ask him if this is what this is. A goodbye. But I’m too scared to. Because this moment is perfect. I don’t want to tarnish it if he tells me something I don’t want to hear.
From beside me, Cain riffles through the basket, and eventually, he must find what he is looking for because he reaches his hand out.
It makes me laugh as he smiles at me. “Scone?”
I bow my head and then smile. “Yeah, I’ll have one.” I reach out and grab it, then take a bite.
We sit in silence while we both eat.
It’s not awkward like you would imagine, but rather peaceful. The sounds of nature play around us.
After we are done eating, Cain reclines back onto his elbows, his face tilting up to look at the sky.
“What will you do when you get home?”
His question is open-ended, and I’m not sure what he’s asking exactly. Is he asking about the article, work . . . life?
Does he really want to know the details of my everyday life? But then I think about him at the café, and I start to speak. “I’m going to write this article first.”
“And then?” he probes.
“Then I’m going to look for a new job.”