Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Why would he do that?
Unless the dates are wrong. Maybe he bought it in a private sale and it’s not listed on these websites? But they pull data from county records and all real estate transactions are recorded.
It’s a puzzle and one that doesn’t feel great.
I head out of the old familiar library and walk back to the house, taking my sweet time. It’s a nice summer day, not too hot, a rare afternoon where the humidity doesn’t make me want to melt into a puddle. I’m unnerved about the house stuff, but there’s got to be a reasonable explanation for it. Aside from Gian being a total crazy person.
As I get closer to what’s now apparently my home, I slow to a stop and stare at a fleet of trucks parked out front. Some are moving vans, but most are delivery trucks, and an army of very large men are carrying what looks like furniture into my house.
“Excuse me?” I approach a couple of men leaning up against a van. They’re both sweating and very muscular, basically built like double ovens, thick at both ends. “Hi, I live here. And, uh, what’s going on?”
The closer one shrugs. He’s got no sleeves, ripped cargo shorts, and heavy gloves. “Someone ordered a bunch of furniture and paid for the white-glove treatment, I guess.”
“What did you two bring in?”
“Couple of couches. Got them placed where I think they look nice, but you probably want to move it around.” He squints at me, frowning. “You want us to come in and adjust stuff?”
“No,” I say, blinking rapidly as some flat packs are hefted up the stairs followed by lamps, a dresser, and an end table. “That’s fine. Uh, thanks.”
“Happy to help. Guess the guy’s your husband? He tipped real good so I think everyone here’s in a very helpful mood.” He laughs and scratches his head.
“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m gonna go check out what he bought.”
“You don’t know? Good luck, I guess.”
I laugh and walk past him, feeling numb. What the crap is going on? I step in through the front door, nearly getting tackled by more movers, both of whom mutter an apology and hurry out to grab more stuff from their truck. The place is chaos: burly men are everywhere, some unpacking and building, some placing and arranging. On the left is a sitting room with rolled-up rugs, a couple couches, a beautiful table, and a china cabinet. There’s a kitchen set in the dining room, couches and a coffee table for the living room, and a few guys are mounting a TV above the fireplace. Another pair is setting up speakers, drilling out holes in the ceiling and the walls, running wire everywhere.
“Sorry, excuse me,” a man says as he carries a statue of what looks like a black panther sitting on his butt and sniffing the air.
“Hold on, what the heck is that thing?”
He frowns and shrugs. “Don’t know. Receipt says it cost like six grand though. Where do you want it?”
“Uh—” I’m tempted to say the trash but just shake my head, completely bewildered. “Wherever you find space.”
“Sure thing.”
I drift upstairs. The scene is the same. More guys are building stuff: dressers, nightstands, beds in all the bedrooms.
It’s a total nightmare. An hour ago, this place was totally empty, but now it’s full to bursting. At least I spot a man wearing a nice suit carefully unpacking a box that looks like it’s filled with my own stuff.
“Hi, are you one of Gian’s guys?”
He glances over with a smirk. “Not exactly. My name’s Dante.”
I know that name. It registers somewhere in the back of my head before it clicks into place. “You’re Renzo’s best friend.”
“That’s right.” He holds up a very short, black dress, his eyebrows raised. “This is a nice one.”
“Okay, that’s enough of that.” I snatch it away from him, my cheeks bright red. “Please don’t touch my clothes.”
“I was told to make sure your stuff arrived safely and that you were okay with all this.” He gestures at the workers. “And are you okay with it?”
I slide my box of stuff away from Dante and look around at the strangers crawling like a bunch of worker-ants through my home for the next year, setting up furniture I didn’t ask for in spots I never considered, basically arranging my life for me.
“It’s not my style.” I feel like I’m floating above my own body and watching this from a distance. I turn and frown at Dante. “I don’t like any of it.”
He looks back at me then bursts out laughing. Somehow, that manages to snap me back into my skin, and I grin at him as he gets himself under control.
“Guess Gian’s got some shit to work out with you then.”
“Yep, he absolutely does.”
“Go easy on the guy. He meant well.”