Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“The country is different,” she says, as though she’s making excuses for me when it comes to still being awake, and of course, she knows I’m lying here listening to the sounds outside the house. “It takes some getting used to. People think you can sleep in complete silence, but most of the world is trained in the exact opposite way. They live and sleep in so much noise.”
“Do you like it out here?” I’m going to pretend my hand doesn’t ache to creep across the too-hot flannel sheets and brush hers, just like I pretended I couldn’t see the way her soul was in her eyes in the barn.
She’s the kind of person who doesn’t have to even know someone to understand their hurt. She just gets it.
But thoughts like that are total bullshit, and I can’t let myself keep falling into that trap. Her compassion is fake. It has to be.
“I…think so. It’s a lot of work, but I’m getting there,” she answers.
“You said you sew.”
“Yes. I did say that was my real job.”
“Are you trained?” I ask her.
“Define trained?”
I take a chance and twist onto my side. She looks fucking gorgeous in the golden glow. This is the kind of woman who could bring a man to his knees with just a single sweep of her finger. Very dangerous indeed, even if she looks like an angel with a halo around her head. Well, I mean, not really. Angels aren’t actually like how pictures depict them. Angels look like demons. Or is it demons that look like angels? Maybe it’s very apt, then. Appearances like dewy, soft eyes, rose-petal pink cheeks, and pillowy lips can mask a monster quite effectively.
“Trained as in school,” I clarify, but now it sounds like I’m constipated, though I have zero stomach cramps, and I’m fine in that department. I just sound like I haven’t—yeah. I don’t know what’s going on with my voice.
“No,” she says.
She’s a terrible liar. I’m basically a human lie detector. Wait, isn’t she? Or is that part of the game, too?
“The internet makes it okay for people not to be trained and still be good at something,” she says tersely.
Fuck. I hope my face doesn’t look constipated.
This is the problem with getting carried away with golden lights and thinking too much about soft lips. One doesn’t focus on one’s face, and that leads one to slip the shit up.
“People buy my clothes.” She looks like she’s trying to convince me, so let’s go with that. She’s read whatever I was broadcasting in my errant error of forgetting myself. “They buy them because they’re great. I only sew three different patterns, and I’ve pretty much perfected them. My clientele is growing all the time.”
“Why did you move out here?” I ask outrightly.
“What?” She looks like she wants to fly off the other end of the bed. I’m beyond being cautious, but I should dial it back.
“You came out here alone, and you’re in the middle of nowhere. It doesn’t appear that safe. You’re far from the city. You sell clothes, but you also do this. Why?”
Confession time? Have I walked her straight to the edge of the cliff?
“Why does anyone move anywhere?” She looks like she’d rather eat a plate of toenail clippings instead of continuing this conversation. Yeah, not so much at the cliff’s edge.
I ask, “Is your family worried about you?”
“My family is off limits,” she says, swallowing hard. “Usually. But…” But you told me about yours. She doesn’t say it, though. She doesn’t have to. “I guess sometimes they might be, but they understand. I’m trying to be as happy as circumstances allow.”
“And those are?”
She closes off right in front of me. She manages to do it with a big smile, but her eyes visibly shutter. I actually somewhat hate myself for pressing on all her sore spots right now. I’m being an asshole. It might be my nature, but this is one of the first times I’ve regretted it. “Those aren’t your business. How I got out here and why are off limits.”
I switch tracks fast before she can suspect anything. “What time do your clients leave in the morning?”
“Whatever time suits them. Usually before noon.”
“I suppose we should put that in the contract.” That’s right. Make this all about the contract. Make your slip up in the barn about the contract. Make it all about a piece of paper because life is safer that way.
Damn right, it’s safer. I don’t consider it cowardly. I consider it smart. In my line of work, being prepared and considering what’s coming at you from every angle is one of the only ways you save your arse from being killed. Or the client’s arse, which is what matters. So, yes. Contracts are important. Foresight, practice, and sticking to the rules are important.