Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Preston is in his fifties, maybe his sixties. That’d make her somewhere between twenties to her forties. Are you getting particular on your clientele now?” Now that my shirt is on, I wipe my hand down my face, wondering what in the actual fuck I’m about to do. If the woman is in fact who I think she is, how’s this gonna play out? My relationship with Wes is already on tenterhooks because we’re both too fucking stubborn to talk shit out. The latest reason for him not coming around is because of money. My son, wanted me to load him money to start up his own business. Fuck that. He saw me claw my way to the top, working twelve- to fourteen-hour days to get to where I am today. I love my boy with all my heart, but I drew the line on putting my retirement or house up so he could follow this grand dream with not one single business plan in place. It was clear as fucking day that my parents and I gave Wes entirely too much, all of us trying to cushion the blow of him not having a mother. Fat lot of good that did me, keeping the door closed to having a mother figure in the form of a girlfriend and shielding him the entire time. When he went off to college, the boy went hog freaking wild, losing sight of everything, something a single parent never wants their kid to go through. The only saving grace was that he didn’t knock a girl up like I did.
“Not necessarily, though the older the ladies are, the pickier they get and the more changes they make, causing me a damn headache nine times out of ten.” The last time I took on a project for a client who was retired, the job took twice as long and the customer paid twice as much because of the change orders she kept putting in.
“Shit, if I ever get like that, put me in a condo or a home. No way do I want someone beating around in my house when I’m retired.” Daniel chuckles on the other end of the line. I hit the lights in my kitchen, turning them off, then hit the door that leads to the garage and grab my keys off the hook.
“You’ve got no idea.” It’s time for me to shut this conversation down, or it could get long winded. Daniel’s a good guy, but the man can talk a conversation to death.
“I can imagine. You staying busy?” This is only prolonging the process. I hit the button on the garage door and watch as it slides up. A couple of years ago, another idea took shape, this one a hobby that doesn’t involve working with anyone except myself, building furniture is now thrown in the mix of what I do on my down time. My current project is a kitchen table for my own place. The pedestal is giving me a shit ton of fits, but walking away from it hasn’t helped any either. It’s also taken over my garage in a way that has my truck permanently parked in the driveway these days, a completely converted workshop in its place now. I could have pulled the permits, built a shed in the backyard, and do it all myself, but that seemed more like work than it was worth, plus I’d lose the mountain view. So, the truck sits in the driveway, and my garage is taken over by every woodworking tool, fans, and anything else you can think of.
“More than you know. Hey, mind if I call you back? I’ve gotta take this call on the other line.” I don’t bother telling him I’m in the process of leaving the house, and hopefully, Daniel can’t hear the whirring noise of the engine in the background giving away that I’m clicking the remote start on my truck.
“Sure, man, we’ll get together soon and catch up. Thanks for letting me pass along your number,” Daniel finally states.
“Will do, appreciate it.”
“Later,” he replies.
“Later.” I pull my phone away from my ear, hit the end button, and make my way to the Miller house. It could be nothing; it’s probably not even her. I haven’t seen her since the day she ran out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there with her taste on my lips, an aching cock, as though our kiss didn’t rock her motherfucking world. It’s why I keep telling myself the chances of this being the same Preston as then is a fifty-fifty gamble. Yet I’m still opening my door, sliding in the driver’s seat, clicking my seat belt into place, and reversing my truck out of the driveway. I’m heading in the direction of where the woman who’s haunted my dreams for eleven years could possibly be. Having not one fucking clue what I’m going to do if it really is Josie Preston.