Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“What do you want for dinner?” he asks, most definitely attempting another change of topic. He likes living dangerously. He should take me more seriously when books are at stake. I might joke about a lot of things, but never the printed word.
I rip the tape off the nearest box and peer inside. Just as expected...books. All these boxes are full of books. He obviously loves reading, and yet his library is in shambles.
He scratches at the dark stubble lining his jaw. “Feel free to just go ahead and open those.”
“Is there furniture in the guest bedrooms?”
“No. If a friend crashes, they just sleep on the couch. Unless they’re a special friend.”
“What about upstairs?”
“There’s my bed, of course. And a desk and table in the office.”
“Anything in the sitting room?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not a space I use.”
“What about the media room next door?”
“Got the screen set up in the main room, so...”
I stare at him in wonder. “You’ve been living here for half a decade, don’t use the bulk of the house, and haven’t bothered to finish unpacking. Does that basically sum up the situation?”
“Yeah. Basically. I’ve been busy.”
There have been many times in my life when I wished men came with a manual. But none so much as now. I run a finger along a shelf, and it comes away dust free. Meaning I can move straight into unpacking the boxes and getting the books in order. “I’ll have that drink when you’re ready.”
“You’re going to set up my library?”
“I am.”
“That’s a big job.”
“Oh. I meant to tell you, your mother visited me last night,” I say, piling books from the first box onto the floor.
All amusement falls from his face. “Helena visited you? At your apartment?”
“Yeah. It was fine. Don’t panic.” I pull out my hair tie and redo my ponytail. Wearing the helmet has left it feeling lopsided. “But she and my friend Rebecca were snooping and found my wish list, along with other clues, such as information on green burials.”
“You’re not going to die,” he growls. “I wish you’d stop worrying about that.”
“At any rate, questions were asked, and I wound up telling them about Good Witch Willow and the predictions. But don’t worry. I made sure not to mention the one about us being soulmates within your mother’s hearing.”
His frown amps up to eleven. “All right.”
“Her Ladyship decided I needed spiritual cleansing.”
“Of course she did. You didn’t actually let her do it, though, did you?”
“Your belief in me being sensible is beautiful but unwarranted,” I report. “She filled up a Super Soaker with essential oils, and I stood in the shower wearing my bikini, and...yeah. She fired it at me.”
His mouth hangs open in wonder.
“Say something, Ali.”
“You let my mother fire a water pistol full of scented oil at you?”
“Yes.”
He just blinks.
“She threw Himalayan crystal salt at me too. Big handfuls of the stuff. A huge chunk of quartz was also involved. I forget what that was for. But she didn’t throw that at me. It just sat on the shower floor, where I kept accidentally kicking it. There was some chanting involved too. A mantra or something.”
“Right.” This is about when he starts to massage either side of the bridge of his nose. Like he’s in actual physical pain. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I am just telling you because I thought you would want to know.”
“Lilah, be careful with my mother,” he says, his voice slow and deliberate. Like he’s choosing his words with care. “She doesn’t always make good choices.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just be careful,” he repeats. “Please.”
“Okay. About that drink?”
Without a word, he turns and disappears. It seems I am sorting books on my own.
Alistair reads a fair amount of fantasy. I’ve no idea why, but this surprises me. Terry Pratchett and J. R. R. Tolkien and N. K. Jemisin are all here. I went through a fantasy phase in my midtwenties, but it doesn’t appeal as much to me right now. Guess the idea of a world with a system of magic was more enticing before these predictions bit me on the ass. Though being told you’re going to die next week will suck the sparkle out of anything.
Alistair returns with the bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, along with a single champagne flute and a beer for him. He pours me a glass of bubbles before starting in on one of the boxes alongside me. We’re going to work on the library together. I like being close to him, so this is a good thing. Though I am a little surprised he didn’t object to me going through his books and taking charge. Maybe he is starting to trust me after all.
“Am I allowed to ask how your lunch date went on Wednesday?” I say oh so casually. “Friends ask each other things like that, right?”