Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I peer up, surrounded by tall, lurking tress and a dense fog. I’m lost.
“Willow!” a man yells from a distance. “Willow, can ya hear me?”
This man sounds familiar—like he wants to help me. My heart beats faster, reacting to his voice. I try to scream—to call out to whomever he is, but I can’t.
I grab my throat but it’s wet and sticky. Pulling my hands back, I study them—more blood is on them now, wetter, thicker. It’s spilling from my throat. I’m bleeding…but why haven’t I died yet?
“Willow!” the familiar voice shouts again and I stagger to a stand, stepping on sticks and twigs that snap. A soggy leaf glues itself to my bare foot, and the air becomes cooler. I try to find the voice, but I don’t make it far.
Something grabs me from behind, its hands like ice, and I turn around to a figure in black. All I can see is their smile and the red eyes pointing upward at the edges like sharp crescents.
“Go to him,” the dark figure growls. “So he can die.”
Five
WILLOW
The sound of knocking pulls me out of my sleep, and I groan, rolling over in bed. Lifting a pillow, I bring it over my head, but the relentless knocking continues.
“What?” I yell. I lift one droopy eyelid to check the time on my alarm clock. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss as another round of knocks sounds off. “It’s seven in the morning!”
The knocking continues and I finally toss the pillow and comforter off, hurrying to the door. I check the peephole and my heart drops when I see who it is. Really? The one morning when I don’t want to be bothered, he shows up? Fucking Garrett.
I debate ignoring it, but I know he’ll keep knocking. Or he’ll use the key I gave him…which I need back, by the way. Ugh. And he probably heard my voice just now. Fuck.
I drag a hand over my face, run a palm over my hair to smooth some of the frizz, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and then pull the door open. As soon as I do, Garrett says, “You didn’t call.”
I blink at him, letting the words register. Call? Oh. Right.
“Shit, yeah. I didn’t. Sorry. I got home and completely crashed. I was exhausted.” Garrett looks me over from the other side of the door, two coffees in hand and a box from his favorite New York City style bakery. His eyes swing across the apartment to the counter. I look with him at the bottle of tequila and the empty glass I used last night.
“Not exhausted enough to keep you from drinking, I see.” He raises a judgmental brow.
“It was just one drink,” I counter.
“If you say so.” He shifts on his feet. “You gonna let me in or what?”
I step back, hugging the door as he walks past me. He places the coffees and bakery box on the counter, then takes a thorough look around. He does that a lot when he comes over, like he’s looking for something—or someone, rather.
“Got your favorite.” He offers one of the coffee cups to me.
“Thanks.” I take it from him, moving across the hardwood floors and sitting on my sofa. I take careful sips and smile at him. “White chocolate.”
“Yep.” He carries his coffee with him. “So, uh, what time did you get in last night?”
“Four in the morning.”
He huffs a laugh and I’m not sure what that laugh implies, so I don’t react to it. We sit in silence a moment, sipping our hot beverages.
“You were right, you know,” I finally say, and I hate the words as they spill off my tongue, but I can’t stand the silence. Why is he even here? Why didn’t he call first?
“About what?”
“About our…relationship.” I glance at him, and he does his infamous brow quirk, waiting for me to say more.
“I know it’s not fair of me to expect you to stick around when I’m hardly here,” I go on. “I work a lot more so…I’m sure it’s becoming frustrating for you.”
“Yeah, it is.” He sits back against the cushions. “But it’s your job. That’s why I came over to see you. Can’t really be mad when you’re making money to provide for yourself,” he says with a smirk.
I force a smile and give him a onceover. He’s dressed casually, jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt. He smells like sandalwood, and he’s had his goatee trimmed into neat lines. His hair is the same floppy, curly top, trimmed around the ears. He looks nice, well-rested—the opposite of my current state. And because he looks so nice, it must mean he has to get to work himself. I find relief in knowing that.
I pick at the label on my cup with his name on it. “I was thinking, though…” I pause, letting the words marinate. “Maybe we shouldn’t take what we have so seriously.”