Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
“Who?” her friend asked.
Gracen let out a huff. “What does that even mat—”
“I mean, we’ve lived together since we graduated high school, you’ve only dated one guy, and the last one-night stand you had was so awkward you snuck out when he went to the bath—”
“Okay, okay,” Gracen cut in, waving a hand through the air to shut Delaney up. “We don’t need to make a whole list out of my sex life.”
“What list?” Delaney arched a brow. “Did the second guy even get it in?”
No.
But the one last night sure as hell did.
Gracen met Delaney’s stare, wanting her friend to just drop the conversation until it was a better time. “Listen, we don’t tell each other everything all of the time. I had a fun night, it might happen again, and I will fill you in if I need to. There’s nothing else to tell.”
Delaney blinked.
Twice.
“Are you?”
“What?” Gracen asked.
“Being safe?”
“Delaney, come on.”
“You weren’t home last night, and you won’t even tell me who you were with or where you are, but now I should believe you if you say, or won’t, that you’re safe? I don’t know,” Delaney muttered, turning away to return to her station.
Gracen hated how Delaney did that sometimes. Shut out her side of the conversation by walking away when clearly the two weren’t done.
“Malachi,” Gracen said before she could stop herself. “His name is Malachi; we’re not dating, so no, I’m not telling you more. I was thirty seconds away across the street all night in the apartment behind Checkered’s, Delaney. It’s not a big freaking deal.”
Delaney froze on her trek to the station across from Gracen’s, and then spun around on the spot to face her friend. “Excuse me?”
“Malachi Anders. He’s not been in town long. I met him up at the coffee shop last week. He’s—”
“Alora Beau’s older brother?”
Gracen had not heard Delaney properly.
Surely.
“Doesn’t she only have sisters?”
Sisters that were younger than her. Sisters Gracen had seen in pictures posted in the town’s local newspaper whenever the family had a piece included that focused on them. Sisters that were certainly not an older brother Gracen spent the night with.
Please, no.
“Alora’s mother only had girls with Frankie Beau,” Delaney confirmed, “but she had Alora and Malachi way before she met and married him. He only adopted Alora after they got married, though. I’ve never even met her brother,” her friend finished with a shrug. “He’s like twenty-seven, or something. I think he as quite a bit older than her when their mom married their stepdad. I think I heard someone say he’s not really family value friendly with the church, if you know what I mean.”
Yeah.
Sounded just like Malachi to Gracen.
Did that change things?
Gracen didn’t have time to think about it before the bell over the door chimed to say the appointment she had rushed to catch after waking up late finally arrived. Fifteen minutes after her appointment for a standard wash, cut, and set.
“Sorry, did you get my text?” the social worker asked as the salon’s front door swung closed behind her.
“I did,” Gracen assured.
Callie Smith smiled apologetically as she shed her bag on the one of the chairs next to the windows and pulled her long black hair out of the tight bun at the nape of her neck. “I just need something easy—wake up, wash, and go. It doesn’t have to be fancy.”
“We’re talking more about ...” Delaney wagged a finger at Gracen, adding, “You know what—later!”
She ignored her friend.
Or tried.
“Have you thought about something short?” Gracen asked her client when Callie finally found her way into the stylist’s chair.
“I just don’t have time,” the woman muttered. “I’m looking at a seventy-file caseload—when the max is supposed to be twelve—and I need to worry less about what my hair is doing in the morning.”
Damn.
“Seventy files, really?” Gracen asked.
That meant seventy kids, high-risk or at cause for concern, for social services to keep a file on. At the very least because a complaint had been made. The worst cases ... well, Gracen didn’t want to even think about that. In their small, rural counties? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it.
Callie only shook her head, her sad, tired gaze meeting Gracen’s in the mirror while her stylist prepped the standard black cape. “I swear I spend more time on the road trying to find these kids sometimes than I do actually sitting and talking with them.”
“You know, we see a lot of kids going in and out of here sometimes. Friends of friends,” Gracen explained. “If you’re trying to find someone specific, we might be able to help.”
The social worker nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Gracen moved the conversation back to Callie’s desire for a drastic change in appearance—it was always a big move for a woman to go from long locks to a shorter style. All the while, though, Gracen’s mind was on the parking lot in front of the Haus.