Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
I decide to try one last time and yell over, “My name is Carrie. I just—”
The words die on my tongue when he abruptly turns around and stalks back inside his house.
The screen door slams so hard behind him that it bounces off the frame, making a loud cracking sound.
A few seconds later, the music stops playing, leaving me in total silence.
And this silence doesn’t feel quite so welcoming.
Carrie
After my not-so-nice, awkward encounter with my rude neighbor, I decide to take a walk into town to find a grocery store and somewhere that sells bath towels and bed linens. I don’t need to worry about buying a duvet with how warm I am at the moment, which I don’t see changing anytime soon and which will only get worse the more pregnant I become.
So, I just need sheets, pillows, and pillowcases. And sunscreen. Because I’ll fry like a piece of bacon if I don’t wear it.
I should get some cover-up for my face, too.
Maybe that’s why he was rude to me. Maybe he saw this bruise on my face and thought I was some kind of trouble. That I would bring trouble to the neighborhood.
Well, there’s not much I can do about covering it up now. So, I do the only thing I can. I grab my hairbrush and part my hair over to the side, so it drapes over my eye and covers my cheek.
Using Google Maps, I start walking in the direction of where it says the closest grocery store is because my feet are my current mode of transport. Hopefully, I can get everything I need from there.
Maybe I should think about getting a car.
But that would mean spending more of Neil’s dirty money than necessary.
No, thanks.
Get a job first. Then, maybe a car.
The walk to the supermarket is nice. Canyon Lake is a pretty place.
It’s leafier than I would have expected for Texas.
As I near the town center, I spot a diner across the street. Sadie’s Diner, the sign above the storefront says.
It’s been a while since I last ate, so maybe I should grab some food here before going to the supermarket.
As I near the diner, I see a sign in the window that says they serve the best pies this side of Texas. I also see another sign in the window that makes my heart lift—Help Wanted: Part-time waitress. Experience preferred but not essential. Smile is a must though. Apply within.
Okay, so I’ll grab some food here and a job, too, if I’m lucky.
I pull open the door and step inside the diner. Music is playing in the background. There are a few customers seated at the tables and booths.
Sweet Lord, it smells like heaven in here. Coffee scent fills the air, but it’s the cherry-pie smell that captures my attention.
My stomach rumbles its enthusiasm.
Taking a seat on a stool at the counter, I try to think of the last time I ate out. And I can’t remember.
We always ate at home. Neil really didn’t like to eat out. He had a thing about different people touching his food.
I always cooked. Sometimes to his satisfaction. Sometimes not.
“Order up for table eight,” a male voice calls from the kitchen behind the counter.
He appears a second later, putting two plates on the serving counter. He looks Latino. His hair is buzzed short. Angular, handsome face. Clean-shaven.
A waitress comes breezing past me and grabs the plates that the Latino guy, who I’m assuming is the cook, just put on the serving counter. She picks them up, smiling at me as she passes. “I’ll be with you in a minute, hon.”
“No rush,” I tell her. Picking up a menu from the counter, I start to read it.
There’s a smile on my face. And that’s because I like it in here. It has a really warm, happy vibe to it.
The waitress appears back in front of me a few minutes later. “You ready to order?” she cheerily asks me.
I lift my head from the menu to look at her.
She has an order pad and pencil in her hand. Her name badge says Sadie. The diner is called Sadie’s. I’m guessing she’s the owner.
She’s really pretty. About my height, five-six. Older than me. I’d say maybe early thirties. Light-brown hair, which is pinned up. A bright smile on her face.
That seems to dim when it flickers over my face.
The bruise.
Self-consciously, I tilt my head to the side, covering my cheek with my hair. The smile I was wearing just before, gone.
“Could I get a piece of cherry pie, please?” I was sold the second I smelled it when I walked in. “And a decaf tea, if possible.”
“Sure. Anything with the pie—cream, ice cream?”
“Just the pie,” I tell her.
“You got it.” She smiles again. Not writing down my order. She puts her pad and pencil on the counter.