Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“Miss Grey,” he says politely—a bit shamefaced, and I don’t understand why until he continues, “I’m afraid I have some bad news about your truck.”
I stand at the foot of the tall stairs outside the mansion, staring at my truck in dismay.
Yes, it’s still in the same spot where I left it. But now the second valet, who looked so offended at having to drive it, just looks apologetic as he offers me my keys.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with stick shifts,” he says stiffly. “I’ll inform the young master, and I’m certain he’ll cover all repairs.”
“In the meantime,” the first valet says, “I’ll have a car brought around immediately to return you to your shop.”
“What? No,” I say too quickly, my stomach sinking. I don’t want much to do with anything Arrendell right now. I definitely don’t want the looks I’ll get for showing up at home in one of their cars.
That’ll send the small-town rumor mill spinning, especially when everyone’s probably hungry for more salacious gossip about the last Arrendell son left at home. I don’t want people thinking I’m his new fling or situationship or whatever.
Groaning, I thank God I wore short, sensible heels today. “It’s fine, guys. I’ll walk. And I’ll send Mort up with a tow truck when I can. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Miss Grey,” they say simultaneously.
This place is so surreal.
And just like that, I’m on my own again.
Sighing, I set out for the road.
It’s not a terrible walk since I’m going downhill, even if it strains my calves. I’m huffing and puffing about ten minutes in.
God, I’m not going to have an asthma attack now, right?
It’s over.
I survived the meeting without melting down. I should be happy I have a lead on a job that will pay our medical bills and then some.
But it’s a lot to think about.
It feels insane to think about taking it on alone.
There’s no question I’ll have to manage the project with Grandpa fading in and out, and there are never any guarantees when the bottom could fall out on his health.
Still, if we get a big enough payment up front, the treatment might buy us time.
Of course, ultimately, I’ll be the one who has to draft the concepts, the plans.
I’m the one who has to be responsible.
I’m also the one who’ll ruin the shop’s reputation if I disappoint one of the richest families on the eastern seaboard.
Ugh.
My heart turns into a knotted ball.
I try to remember my counting exercises, my breathing, as I make it to the bottom of the hill where the wooded lane opens up toward the town square.
I’ve been dealing with this since childhood. It used to be a lot worse.
When I was a little girl, I couldn’t do anything on my own at all. I was homeschooled, and my few attempts to play with other kids usually went horribly wrong. I’d wind up wheezing on the ground while the little jerks just laughed and pointed and called me names. Sometimes they even played keep-away with my little wheeled oxygen tank.
Sometimes, just going up the stairs would drop me on my knees.
I’m managing better now.
But some days—like today—my anxiety short-circuits my lungs.
And I realize I’m about to fall headfirst into an attack when I reach the town square.
No time to scream.
There’s just a sunlit glimmer before my vision blurs. The striking bronze statue of the first Arrendell, rearing up in the center of the square.
Coughing, I scramble for my purse, fishing for my inhaler, but it’s already too late.
My fingers go numb.
My vision darkens.
My legs disappear under me, and my lungs flap as I gasp helplessly.
Too late, too late.
Everything goes dark as my brain stops working and the ground comes crashing up.
2
DARK HORSE (MICAH)
When the hell did I wind up being coffee boy?
When I first signed on with Redhaven PD, Chief Bowden showed up every morning with coffee for everyone—jolly, welcoming, always swinging into the backroom belly-first with a cupholder in one hand. He’d grin like a Cheshire cat as he handed out everyone’s orders on his way to his little corner office.
Black coffee with just a dab of sugar for Captain Grant Faircross.
A half-milk, half-coffee, all sugar diabetic monstrosity for Lieutenant Lucas Graves.
A sweetened vanilla latte for our dispatch officer, Mallory.
Black with Irish crème, no sugar, for me.
Cinnamon chocolate cappuccino for Officer Henri Fontenot, unless he was just on his way out as the chief came in. Then he’d end his nightly on-call shift with a steaming cup of chamomile tea on the chief’s dime.
How do I know all this?
Because I’m the poor bastard filling those orders now.
All because our jolly, bumbling chief has turned sullen and withdrawn lately—when he bothers to show up at the office at all.
If we’re going by rank or tenure, this should be Henri’s job.
I’ve been here longer and I outrank him by a smidge as a junior sergeant, while he doesn’t have any real title besides officer. Even so, that smooth-talking Cajun already wheedled his way out of coffee duty by reminding everyone he got the short end of the stick with night shift in the most boring town in North Carolina.