Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Dad’s questions aren’t suggestions, they’re law. So much for going home and spending a couple of hours with Cedarwood Mansion.
Me: K.
It’s the response he always gets from me when I’m angry. I don’t know why it pisses him off so much, but it always has. He responds with an emoji that’s cursing, which makes me bark out a laugh.
I’m nearly at the parking lot when I see a couple standing near a badass sports car. It’s one of the newer muscle cars—a remake of the classics—but still looks pretty damn cool. The owner of the sweet ride has a girl pulled against his chest and he hugs her tight. It’s then I recognize the shiny brown hair.
Gemma has a boyfriend?
The dude in question has tats on his neck, arms, and hands. His dark hair is a chaotic mess. Our eyes meet and he narrows his at me.
Don’t want your girlfriend, bro.
In fact, I want nothing to do with your girlfriend.
His eyes follow me as I make it to my car. I fling my bag into the passenger seat, inhale the natural musty age of the vehicle, and then fire it up.
Well, not on the first time.
My car never fires up on the first time.
Third time’s a charm, though, and within seconds, I’m peeling out of my spot. Golden’s imperfect boyfriend glowers at me and then flips me off.
Fucking prick.
I use both hands to flip him off for extra impact, but then my steering wheel starts veering toward a row of cars, and I’m forced to grab back on to straighten it. Normally, I don’t mind dealing with wonky steering, but today it’s just a reminder of what I am.
Two.
Broken little boy driving a broken old car.
What a great day for therapy.
Gemma
I call it twin magic.
For as long as I can remember, Dempsey, my brother, twin, and built-in best friend has always been there to comfort me or cheer me up whenever I’ve had a bad day.
Today has been awful and Dempsey’s timing is impeccable.
“Want me to have Sloane arrest him?”
I chuckle as we cruise out of the parking lot in his beast of a car. I’m low-key jealous he got himself this bad boy when I’m stuck driving the practical Tahoe.
“You can’t arrest him for being an asshole,” I say, shaking my head. “But if it were possible, he’d totally be in cuffs right now.”
“I’m sure my woman can dig up some dirt on him. She’s pretty good at that shit.”
I reach over and pat Dempsey’s hand that’s on the stick shift. It’s a reminder of why I can’t drive a car like this. I’d have no idea how to even make it go.
“I love you,” I tell him. “Just knowing you hate him on principle because I do makes my day.”
He groans when I disconnect his Bluetooth and hook mine in. It’s our deal. If he’s going to drive, I get to choose the music. I settle on something new I heard while scrolling through social media the other day. The smooth voice of the singer calms my erratically beating heart.
“I found a new place the other day,” Dempsey says as he dutifully uses his blinker. Sloane must be rubbing off on him. He’s marrying a cop who doesn’t put up with his bullshit. “It’s small and cozy. They probably don’t even have a Facebook, so you can’t post it to the ’Gram or whatever.”
My brother seriously has no clue what I do. I think he thinks I make posts and people pay me for it. Technically, when you boil it down, I suppose they do. Well, the sponsors at least. But I hate when he minimizes it.
However, the thought of going someplace hidden and private sounds enticing. I’m in need of Dempsey time without an audience.
“Sloane meeting us there?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the dash.
“Nah,” he grunts. “She and Montgomery are working a case. There was a body found on Park Mountain Lake this weekend.”
“It’s too cold to swim,” I say, shivering. “Do you think they drowned or…”
“Or. Definitely or. But Sloane doesn’t need my help.”
Dempsey drives us down Main Street and whips into a parking spot. The building in front of us is weathered and the windows are painted brown. A sign is tacked to the worn-out wooden door that says, “Soup and More. 8-8.”
“This place looks sketchy,” I mutter, squinting against the sun to get a better look. “You sure you don’t want to grab something to eat at your place?”
He laughs as he shuts off the car. “Come on, princess, you’re going to be fine.”
Rolling my eyes, I climb out of the vehicle, following my brother into the building. At first, the darkness of the building is such a contrast to the sunny outdoors that I find myself temporarily blinded, which has my heart hammering in my chest. But as I begin to adjust, I realize the restaurant isn’t sketchy at all.