Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Her hand stopped moving. “How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
She propped her head on her hand and looked at me. “Is this the grandpa that gave you the signed Ray Bradbury paperbacks?”
I smiled—she remembered. “Yes.”
“Tell me more about him. What was he like?”
My head filled with memories of the brilliant, fun-loving grandfather I’d known. “He loved puzzles, and we used to work on them together all the time. He loved baseball and never missed one of my games. He wore Pinaud Clubman aftershave, and sometimes I catch a whiff of it in a crowd and it’s like he’s right there.”
“Maybe he is.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
She laughed. “Do you still have the books he gave you?”
“Yes. They’re not in pristine condition or anything—he read them over and over again, and I did too—but I’d never sell them anyway.”
“Of course not. That kind of thing is priceless.” She put her head down again. “I’m sorry you lost him so young.”
“His death hit me hard. It wasn’t sudden—we knew he was sick—but I was so sure of my ability to prevent anything terrible from happening that I was totally unprepared when it happened.”
“Did you blame yourself?” she asked softly.
“Not exactly, but I started to doubt myself in every way. Soon after that was when I struck out three times during my baseball team’s championship game. I remember thinking then that it was clear—I wasn’t magical. I wasn’t even that special or talented. And everyone fucking knew it.”
She kissed my chest, then pressed her cheek against it, wrapping her arm around my waist.
“I remember coming home and lying on my bed, just staring at the ceiling and thinking, I’m not who I thought I was. The world didn’t work like I thought it did. And maybe everyone else had known this all along, and I was just an idiot.”
She hugged me tighter.
“We moved right after that. My parents wanted a change of scene, and I think they even thought it would be good for me. They could see something was off. I’d gone from a cocky, smart-mouthed fifth grader who only came home to eat and sleep into a kid who hated leaving the house.” I exhaled. “But I think the move made it harder. I had to start over—without my magic powers.”
“But then you met me,” she said brightly. “And that was a good thing, right?”
“That was a good thing.”
“Until I made you pretend to be my fiancé. Attend social gatherings. Host dinner parties.”
“Yes, but . . .” Rolling over, I covered her body with mine, eager to lose myself in her again. “It also has its perks.”
The next morning, I woke up early and headed to the park for my run. I was hoping it was early enough to avoid the Prancin’ Grannies—and I even parked in a different spot—but no such luck.
“There he is!” shouted one of them as I got out of my car. Before I could get my earbuds in or make an escape, they came prancing over, wearing bedazzled pink and indignant expressions.
“Hello, ladies.” Reluctantly, I faced them down, reminding myself they were not lions, just old ladies. Ignoring the itch under my skin, I forced myself to ask the polite question. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine. We were hoping to catch you,” said one with a head full of curls the copper color of a penny. “We want to hear all about your big news!”
“We know her.” A granny wearing lipstick in the same shade of pink as their shirts nodded excitedly. “We’re friends with her grandmother.”
“Oh. You mean Felicity.” My mind worked overtime to think of something more to say, and nothing came.
“Yes. Her grandmother is Daphne Sawyer,” put in a granny with a neon yellow sweatband around her head. “She and her husband John own Cloverleigh Farms, but their kids run it now.”
“I heard the wedding is going to be at Cloverleigh Farms.” Another granny, this one with seriously thick penciled-in eyebrows, pushed her way to the front. “Is that true?”
“Uh, we hope so.”
There was a chorus of sighs and murmurs about what a beautiful place Cloverleigh Farms was, a few comments about other weddings they’d attended there, and a general air of smiling, nodding approval. They were also eager to establish their connections to the Sawyer family.
“I just love the Sawyers. So kind and welcoming.”
“And so generous. When Hank had gall bladder surgery last year, they sent a pie.”
“We always play in John Sawyer’s charity golf outing. Such good people.”
“Daphne still invites me to the annual staff Christmas party. We go every year, even though I haven’t worked there in years.” Copper penny curls paused. “I’ll probably be invited to the wedding.”
In the brief silence that followed, I could practically hear the ruffled feathers.
“Will it be a big wedding?” asked the one with the neon sweatband. “Lots of guests?”