Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“I don’t need a nap,” Serena grits between her teeth while we ascend the stairs.
“Good. That means you’ll stay awake while we chat, button nose.”
“What are we chatting about, little chestnut?”
I grin.
“So glad you asked.” I slip my hands into the pockets of my cargo pants when she turns toward me after reaching the attic. “I thought we had an understanding. You keep your made-up story to yourself.”
She crosses her arms. “First, it’s not made up. Second, she asked about my current project.”
“Then you lie to her.”
“Whoa … no. Just because you’re lying to your mom doesn’t mean I have to.”
I smirk. “So if you’re not lying to my mom, then you think we’re in a relationship.” I take a step closer to her.
She swallows hard.
“I’ll confess, since I’ve never been in a relationship, I can’t speak from experience, but I have it on good authority that people in a relationship have sex. Eat cookies.”
Her lips part, and I can hear her breaths one right after the other. I have no idea where I’m going with this or what I’m doing. Just like I have no idea why I’ve been mesmerized by this woman since she plowed over my mailbox.
It’s a joke. We’re joking. Bantering. Pretending. Right? Yet she helps herself to a long glance at my mouth before slowly inching her gaze back to mine.
“I’m never selling this house,” she says like it’s the only thing she can say to sound confident.
“We’ll see about that.” I let my gaze slide along her body.
“You should uh … go help your mom clean up the kitchen.”
Scraping my teeth along my lower lip, not thinking about my mom, I murmur a slow “Uh-huh.”
“You look like your great grandfather.” Her unexpected comment brings my attention back to her face. “I’ve seen pictures of him.”
I slowly shake my head, closing my eyes briefly. “What are you talking about? Is this about your fictional account of the history of this house?”
“No.”
“Then where are the pictures you have of my great grandfather?”
“They burned in a house fire my mom had several years ago.”
“Convenient.”
Serena frowns. “I’d hardly call it convenient.”
“It’s convenient that you’re trying to make claim to this house. And from what little I heard you tell my mom, I think you’re trying to imply your great grandmother was the great love of my great grandfather’s life.”
“She was. And if I find the hidden spot where he put letters from my great grandmother, Afina, and photos of them, then you’ll see the true history of this house.”
I chuckle. I can’t help it. This is … crazy. “And you’re writing their story?”
Her head bounces into a noncommittal nod. “Well, I’m writing her story, and he’s part of it. She was orphaned. Then homeless. She was a survivor and very brave.”
“And she got influenza?”
Serena nods.
“And she died in this house?”
Another nod.
“If … and it’s a big if … what you’re saying is true, why do you think my great grandfather said Afina was a cat that died? Seems pretty insensitive to ‘the love of his life’ don’t you think?”
She shrugs. “I think he loved your great grandmother. If he was the man my great grandmother described in her journal, if his letters to her were true, then he was a good man. The kind of man who would love someone enough to make her feel like his first love even if she wasn’t. I don’t think true love is rare; I think what’s rare is the ability to truly love. I think good people recognize the abundance of love, the heart’s ability to infinitely expand.”
I nod several times. “Sure. I’ll take your word for it.”
She returns a shy smile. “Are you broken, Henry? Or have you not found your Afina? Are you still looking for the right person to crack open your heart and let your love flow freely?”
On a nervous laugh, I shake my head. “Is that what you think this Afina person did for my great grandfather?”
“I do.”
“And who have you loved? Who opened your heart?”
“Well, I think the story of Afina and Hermann opened my heart as a young girl. I’ve loved. I’ve been married.”
I can’t help my surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. I married my publicist. He died of a heart attack. He died on Christmas morning.”
Oh fuck … is she serious?
“Hence you not celebrating Christmas …”
With a half smile, she shrugs.
“I’m an asshole.”
“Only for losing the family home, but it worked out for me, so I’m not complaining.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” she says.
I give her response some consideration. I give her some consideration. “Well, I thought we were going to have fake relationship sex, but I feel like your dead husband put a damper on the moment. No disrespect to him, of course.”
She chuckles. “Well, that’s kind of you to not disrespect my dead husband as if it’s his fault you suck at relationships. Real or fake.”