Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Every year, Nana and Pop would drive me out to the Christmas tree farm and we’d spend hours searching for the best one. It’s always been one of my most beloved traditions. Pop died the year after I left for New York, and now without Nana, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to enjoy Christmas by myself. Do I bother getting a tree? Decorations? Or should I save up what little money I have left to try and give myself a little cushioning while I start up my PR firm?
But more importantly, what am I supposed to do with myself? Do I force Rena to take me in on Christmas and crash her family’s traditions? I suppose I could go and offer my time down at the soup kitchen. They’re always looking for helpful hands this time of year.
When my bath water starts turning my fingers into a pruney mess and no longer scalds my body, I get out and finish off what’s left of my bottle of wine, knowing damn well I’m about to open a new one.
I get myself wrapped up in my winter pajamas and grab a throw blanket from the linen cupboard before snuggling up on the couch with a notepad and pen. I’m a sucker for a good list. Shopping lists. To-do lists. Skin care routine lists. Anything that could have a list, I have one for, and starting a new business is no different.
Despite Rena’s plan to swing by tonight to do just this, I can’t help but list off everything I need to do to get a new business up and running before making sub lists of the things I need to do to make each of those first steps happen.
Before I know it, my alarm sounds on my phone and my head snaps up, taking in the time.
6:00 p.m.
Shit.
Reaching for my phone, I silence the alarm I’ve kept for the past six years for every Thursday evening—my reminder to call Nana. We stuck to our tradition right until the end, and over the past month, I haven’t found it in me to permanently disable the alarm. It’s my final connection to Nana, the one thing nobody could ever take away from me.
God, I loved her so much. It’s still crazy to think she’s really gone, but that’s the thing about distance, it warps reality. When you see somebody every day and suddenly they’re gone, you notice their absence in a way long-distance relationships simply don’t. I have to keep reminding myself that she’s gone, but if I was back home in Blushing, I would feel it every day in the silence of our home, the coldness of floors beneath my feet, in the way the fresh aroma of coffee would fill the house first thing in the morning.
She was my everything. Right from the day my mother abandoned me and left me all alone on Nana’s doorstep, crying for her to come back. I was only six, and I still haven’t been able to forgive her. But Nana and Pop gave me the life she never would have been capable of and for that, I’m grateful.
I’m just putting my phone back down on the armrest of my couch when a knock sounds at the door and my brows furrow. I haven’t ordered any food and Rena isn’t due to be here for another two hours.
Throwing my blanket back, I get up and trudge over to the door, pulling it open a moment later to find a courier with an A4 envelope waiting in his hand. Considering he didn’t have the access code to the main entrance of the apartment complex, he shouldn’t have been able to get to my door.
“Are you Blair Wilder?” he mutters, clearly not very enthusiastic about his job.
“Yes,” I respond, my brows furrowing just a little bit more.
He shoves the envelope into my hand before offering me a little tablet. “Sign here.”
My gaze sails to the front of the envelope, reading the branding at the top—Roderick Associates & Co. My stomach drops.
Shit.
Dwayne’s gone and hired a lawyer. I bet he’s spent his whole afternoon scrambling through client contracts, making sure there’s a solid non-compete clause so that I can’t poach the firm’s clients.
“What’s this?” I ask the courier, hesitating to sign on the device.
“I don’t know, ma’am. That’s your business, not mine,” he says in a flat, monotone voice, probably dying to get out of here so that he can finish his rounds and get home.
“Shit,” I sigh before quickly scribbling my signature onto the tablet.
I hand it back and he takes it with a subtle nod before disappearing from my front door. Closing the door, I trudge back to the couch and flip the envelope over to slide my finger beneath the sealed tab. As I work my finger across the opening, my stomach flip flops, certain I’m about to get hit with some bullshit defamation case.