Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
And he’s doing it without me.
No, he’s not.
“Give me fifteen minutes to get ready.”
His jaw tenses. “I think it’s best if—”
“I’m coming with you, Henry. Don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise.” I force as much confidence in my voice as I can muster, sliding out of bed.
He tracks my body—clad in a tank top and panties—as I stroll past him into the closet.
But he doesn’t argue.
In fact, from the corner of my eye, I think I catch a smile.
My face blanches as I read the email. “Zaheera is recommending a first batch run of five thousand soaps for mid-November.”
“It’s a small start,” Henry says, his focus on the business section of the newspaper.
“A small start?” I gape at him. “I haven’t sold that many bars in all my years of making soap, combined.”
“And I’m sure you’ll be sold out in under a day. They would have run the numbers. They know what they’re doing. Trust them.”
“I do. Of course I do. This marketing campaign they’re going out with is insane.” I flip through the presentation deck, filled with taglines and graphics, and Farm Girl Soap product reviews they’ve collected from Margo and her high-society friends, as well as a list of influencers they’re targeting.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. I’m nervous.” What if everyone is wrong? What if they think too highly of my product? Of me?
Victor turns onto a quiet street where quaint houses line each side, their lawns sprinkled with fallen leaves and the odd bicycle. I count six basketball hoops and two hockey nets as we creep along. Speaking of being nervous … “Mrs. Robinson found a cute little neighborhood to hide in.”
Henry’s eyebrow arches, but there’s no amusement in the look. “I didn’t agree to you coming so you could attack her. If you can’t be civil—”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.” I cross my finger over my chest, drawing his interest downward over the fitted poppy red V-neck sweater I chose. One of his favorites. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t choose it because I wanted to look especially good next to his teenage paramour.
His eyes settle there, and I can almost read the split second of depraved thoughts flittering through his mind. At some point, this tension is going to get the better of Henry, and I know how he likes to manage his stress levels: with me pinned against a wall or bent over a table.
I can’t wait.
“Did Dyson say if she was married?” Audrey would be about forty-six now. Is she still smoking hot by Henry’s standards?
He folds the newspaper and sets it on the seat beside him. “No, she’s never been married from what he could see.”
“Because her boyfriends still have a curfew.”
“Abbi …”
“Best behavior! I swear.” I hold up my hands in surrender.
“Yes, I remember your best behavior with Kiera at my father’s funeral. I believe you tried to crush her hand.”
“After what she put you through, she deserved it.”
“Regardless, this is not like that.”
No, it’s far worse. Kiera was an enamored assistant who cheated on her husband, hoping for a life with Henry. She’s out of our lives for good. Audrey, on the other hand, was a high school teacher who did a very bad thing and is now forever connected to Henry—and me, by default—for life.
That’s a sobering thought.
Victor makes a right turn onto Acorn Way. It’s a cul-de-sac lined with six adorable houses. He slows in front of a one-and-a-half story with a covered porch and a solid red door. An oak tree fills the front yard, its fallen leaves raked into piles but uncollected. Several bushes around the side could use a healthy trim, but otherwise, the house is cute and well-maintained. “This is it, Mr. Wolf,” he declares.
A large white van is parked in the driveway, its rear doors propped open. A logo on the side names a medical equipment company.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Henry climbs out, holding the door open for me to follow. He stalls at the base of the stone path.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
“I will be once this is over. I never expected to see her again.” He slips his hand within mine, and I note the clammy feeling of his skin.
We take the stone path up toward the front porch steps as two men are wheeling out a hospital bed.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” A middle-aged woman in a sage green velour tracksuit stands in the open doorway, her wispy brown hair pulled back into a bun that highlights the gray at her temples.
Is this her?
“We’re looking for Audrey Campbell,” Henry says, answering my unspoken question. “I was told she lives here?”
“Oh.” The woman’s face falls. “Yes, but I’m sorry to be the one to inform you that Audrey passed away.”