Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 104327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
And I was so fucking tired.
“I need a break,” I admitted. “I thought maybe I’d ride out to California and drive along the coast.”
Mikey and Tiller exchanged a look before Tiller pulled the SUV through a large pair of elaborate iron gates. I knew that look was some kind of marital mind meld even though the two of them weren’t married. Yet.
“You don’t need to fix me,” I muttered, looking around at the gorgeous plot of land they’d bought in this little town in the Colorado Rockies. “This is amazing.”
And it was. Thick stands of trees made way for a more formal lawn of freshly sprouted green grass. The lodge itself was huge and solid, a long sprawling building made from heavy timbers and embellished with gas lantern fixtures by the welcoming double doors and plenty of windows sparkling in the spring sun. The slope of Rockley Mountain peeked over the roofline, and I could see the very top of the highest slope still held on tightly to its snow cap.
I’d been there before, but not since the winter snowfall had melted away and revealed everything it had hidden back in March.
“Jesus, is that an actual old-fashioned well?”
Tiller let out a soft laugh, and Mikey’s face lit up. “Oh my god, yes! And wait till you see how adorable it is. The pump handle isn’t just for show. Actual water comes out. I feel like I’m in a period drama when I use it.”
Tiller pulled the vehicle to a stop in front of the lodge. “He thinks he’s developing biceps from all the pumping.”
Mikey smacked Tiller’s arm. “I am developing biceps, jackass.”
Tiller’s eyes twinkled as they looked at his man. “Want to have a gun show?” He moved to roll up his sleeve, but Mikey slapped his hand away.
“Your pro-football muscles will never compare with my Little House on the Prairie muscles, so I wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself,” Mikey said with a sniff. “Better to keep those little things under wraps.”
Tiller leaned over and kissed Mikey on the mouth. “You know I love your muscles,” he murmured against Mikey’s mouth. Before he said anything else, I took the opportunity to hop out of the SUV and stretch my legs.
I was desperate for a long soak in their hot tub and a healthy dose of something alcoholic. No matter what else happened today, I knew I could count on those two things along with heaps and heaps of Mikey’s gourmet cooking.
Despite the awkward start to my visit in Aster Valley, I knew I was in the perfect place to begin letting go of the work and family stress. Besides consulting with them on the construction projects they wanted my help with, I could spend a few days—or however long it took to get my bike back in working order—relaxing and enjoying the easy company of good friends before continuing on to sun and surf.
I ducked my head back into the SUV. “Show me how to work the hot tub, and then you can go have your fuckfest.”
The afternoon spent lazing around the lodge with my closest friends did wonders for my mood. It all but wiped out the memory of watching my bike get crushed. I felt calmer and more centered, traits I’d worked hard to embrace over the years so I would never become my asshole father.
But the minute I saw Truman walk through the door of Rockley Lodge, my calm disappeared in a puff of smoke. The side of his face was scraped and dusty, and a hole had been ripped in the knee of his pants.
“What the hell happened to you?” I barked, standing from my spot at the kitchen island and striding over to him.
Truman hadn’t seen me yet, so when he heard my question, he jumped in surprise and clutched his chest with the hand that wasn’t holding a bottle of wine. “Cripes, you startled me.”
Mikey took the wine and set it on the counter on his way back into the kitchen from answering the door for Truman. “He fell on the driveway. Tiller, grab the first aid kit from our bathroom.”
As Tiller disappeared down the hallway, I reached out to examine Truman’s face. His big eyes were wide behind his crooked glasses, and his top tooth came out to pin his bottom lip. I reached up to straighten his glasses which made his eyes widen even more.
“Better,” I murmured.
“It’s fine,” he said in a ragged voice. His entire body was coiled with tension, and his cheeks were mottled with pink patches as if he was flustered or embarrassed. “I just tripped. That’s all. Stupid.”
I glanced down at his feet and noticed the same black Converse sneakers he’d been wearing before, only one of them had a long pair of untied laces. I crouched down to tie it for him.