Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 138965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
‘What do you care?’ I say quietly, slamming my truck into reverse and turning, heading home.
I park under the tree, and as soon as I make it into my cabin, I fling open all the windows and head straight for the fridge, finding a beer and twisting off the cap, relishing the hiss of gas. That first glug is like no other. I head back out to the yard and straight to the hammock, dropping in, kicking my feet up, and relaxing back, staring at the treetops.
Home.
As I lie, lightly swinging, sipping my Bud, I wonder how Jake is doing, but the mystery woman whom I nearly flattened quickly takes up first position in my mind space. Has she made it home okay? Speaking of which, where does she live? And again, who the hell is she? I’ve lived here my whole life; there isn’t one person I don’t know in Hampton. Or there wasn’t. I close my eyes and see a rainbow of colours dancing in my darkness, and I hear the sharpness of her potty mouth.
And I’m smiling again. Who are you?
Chapter 4
HANNAH
It takes me a stupid long time to get home. My knee hurts, my shoulder hurts, my ego hurts. I’m cursing under my breath as I yank my broken bicycle through the front door of my shop, the wheels creaking as I push it through the shop. I unbolt the back door, unlock it, and pull it open, more or less tossing my bike into the small courtyard. ‘Stupid,’ I pout as I wriggle my toes in my Birkenstocks, feeling blisters. God, I’m a walking disaster.
After dropping the blinds, I make my way upstairs to take a shower. And when I see myself in the bathroom mirror, I am utterly appalled. ‘Oh, Hannah,’ I sigh. There’s not one inch of my body not covered in paint. Every colour you could imagine, and a few new shades, too, not to mention all the dry leaves and twigs stuck to me. I am a multicoloured mess of a woman. Wrinkling my nose, I reach up and pull my head scarf free, pointlessly poking at the pieces of hair sticking out everywhere. ‘A bloody mess.’
After stripping down, I hop in the shower and wash the day away. I also shave, something I’ve recently let slip. And I leave a deep conditioner in my hair for three minutes while scrubbing my nails of all the dirt beneath them. Then clean and fresh, I slap a bandage on my grazed knee, hissing and wincing while I do, before crawling into bed.
Of course, my thoughts soon go back to the dirt road I was lost on, and I chide myself for being so damn rude to a man who was only trying to help me, even if he was to blame for my brush with death. But at least it was an accident. At least he didn’t hurt me on purpose. And at least he was genuinely remorseful.
Who is he?
I wake with a start, bolting upright in my bed. Sweat pours from my brow, my mind working fast to remind me of where I am. You’re safe, Hannah. I swallow and spend a few moments gathering myself. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Once my stupid hands aren’t shaking too much, I reach for my iPad, load Facebook, and type in my sister’s name. I won’t be able to see any of her statuses, since we’re not Facebook friends – we can’t ever be friends – but I can see a photograph of her. I can look at her face. I need to see her face.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper when I see she’s uploaded a new profile picture. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.’ I smile like crazy as I stare at my older sister, Pippa. This is such a treat, because not only do I get to see my older sister, I get to see my niece, too. The little girl cuddled into my sister’s lap looks more like her mum each time I see a picture of her. Dark hair, blue eyes, a beautiful heart-shaped face. She’s the spitting image. ‘Look at you, Bella,’ I say, tracing the edge of her cute chin. ‘You got so big.’ She’s seven now, and in this photograph they’re at some kind of party. I can see a bouncy castle in the background and a hot dog stand. My niece’s face is painted, too, beautiful butterfly wings spanning each cheek.
Paint.
‘Oh shit,’ I blurt, tossing my iPad to the bed and jumping up. I pelt into the bathroom. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I scrub my teeth, throw on a loose black long dress, shove my feet into some flip-flops, and dash downstairs. I skid to a stop at the mirror by the door, quickly and clumsily knotting my hair on top of my head. Then I’m out the door and rushing up the street to the general shop. My heart sinks when I see it’s not open.