Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Leaving his glass on the counter, Julian followed his mother to the door.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” she said briskly, turning the knob and stepping into a wash of sunshine. “Oh, before I go, there may be a small commotion outside later today, but it’s nothing to concern yourself with.”
Julian drew up short, a vision of his stopwatch app vanishing like mist. “What do you mean by a small commotion? There is no such thing.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She pursed her lips. “It’ll just be a commotion.”
“What sort?”
“The gardener. She’ll be dropping by to plant some begonias.”
Julian couldn’t hide his perplexity. “Why?”
Brown eyes, very similar to his own, flashed. “Because I hired her to do so.”
His laugh was short. More like a scoffing exhale. “I couldn’t care less about flowers, and I’m the only one here to look at them.”
They both stopped and visibly straightened themselves. Arguing was beneath them. They were civilized. They had been taught to grin and bear their way through anger, to not give in to the urge to win. Victory meant everyone walked away half satisfied, relieved to get back to their own separate world.
“What time is she arriving?”
Did the corner of Corinne’s mouth jump a little? “Three o’clock.” She smiled and stepped onto the porch, descending one step. Two. “Approximately.”
Julian’s eye twitched.
He loathed the word “approximately.” If he could remove one word from the dictionary, it would be “approximately,” followed by “nearly” and “somewhat.” If this gardener gave only ballpark arrival times, they were not going to get along. Best to stay inside and ignore her.
Should be easy enough.
* * *
The gardener arrived with five minutes left in his writing sprint.
What sounded like a truck crunched to a stop in the pebbled driveway, the rumbling engine falling silent. A squealing door slammed. Two dogs started to bark.
Sorry, make that three dogs.
Jesus. Christ.
Well, if they needed something from him, they would all have to damn well wait.
He wasn’t even going to break concentration to look at the time.
But considering he’d started this thirty-minute writing session at four o’clock, he assumed it was nearing four thirty—and that made this gardener a grand total of an hour and a half late. That was so late, it didn’t even constitute late. It was a full-blown absence.
He would be letting her know it. Just as soon as his timer went off.
“Hello?” called an extremely cheerful voice from the driveway, followed by a chorus of excited barking. “Mr. Vos?”
Julian’s fingers almost stopped on the keyboard at being called Mr. Vos. At Stanford, he was Professor Vos. Or simply Professor.
Mr. Vos was his father.
For the breath of a second, the motions of his fingers grew stiff.
He typed faster to make up for the stutter. And he kept right on going when the front door of the house opened. “Hello? Is everyone decent?” Something about the voice of this gardener—and apparent trespasser—tugged at his memory, but he couldn’t quite land on the face that matched. Why the hell did she need to enter the home when his garden was outside? Had his mother hired this person as payback for not coming home for four years? If so, the torture was effective. His blood pressure rose with every creak of her footsteps down the hallway. “I’m here to plant your begonias . . . Boys! Heel!”
If Julian wasn’t mistaken, that was a pair of paws resting on his shoulders. The cold, wet muzzle of another canine snuffled at his thigh, then tried to dislodge his fingers from the keyboard.
Briefly, Julian’s gaze fell to his stopwatch. Three more minutes.
If he didn’t finish the session, he wouldn’t relax all night. But it was hard to concentrate when he could see the reflection of a yellow lab in the computer monitor. As if sensing Julian’s attention, the animal rolled over onto his back on the rug, tongue lolling out.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt . . .” came the bright, almost musical voice behind him. “Oh, you’re just going to keep going. Okay.” A shadow fell over a portion of his desk. “I see. This is some kind of timed session.” She shivered, as if she’d just found out he was a phantom haunting the premises, rather than someone who simply valued minutes and their many uses. Perhaps she should take note. “You cannot stop . . .” she said slowly, her presence warming his right upper back. “Until the stopwatch runs out, or you won’t earn your glass of whiskey.”
Wait.
What?
Oh, Jesus. Wexler was voicing the thoughts inside of Julian’s head again.
And the gardener was reading over his shoulder.
Finally, the timer went off, sending the dogs into a howling competition.
Julian pinned his phone’s red timer button with his index finger, took a deep breath, and turned slowly in the executive chair, preparing the rebuke of the century. In the history department at Stanford, he was known for being particular. Exacting. Rigorous. But when it came to censuring students, he let his grades do the talking. He didn’t have time for extra lectures after hours. When a student requested a meeting, he accommodated them, of course. As long as they scheduled in advance. God help the ones who showed up unannounced.