Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
“Oh, you don’t need to—”
“I don’t need to, but I will. I’ll go in there and see what I can caulk too. They can squeeze through the smallest gaps, but I’ll try my best.”
Hope rose up inside of me again.
My landlord leveled me with an intense gaze. “You won’t get back up on that ladder though. You could’ve fallen, broken a leg. Your back . . .”
He was such an overprotective dad. I loved it. It only made him that much more good-looking to me. Even if he did have that scary serious face. And he didn’t really like me.
But I still squinted. “Are you asking me not to get back on it or telling me?”
He stared.
“All right, all right. I won’t. I was just scared and didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re paying me rent, aren’t you?”
I nodded because, yeah, I was.
“Then it’s my responsibility to take care of things like that,” he explained steadily. “Am said he thought he saw you sleeping in your car, but I thought he was imagining it and you were drunk.”
I scoffed. “I told you, I don’t really drink that much.”
I wasn’t sure he believed me. “I’ll get it taken care of. If there’s another problem with the studio, tell me. I don’t need or want you suing me.”
That got me to frown . . . even though it hurt. “I would never sue you, especially not if it was me being stupid. And no one-stars either.”
Nothing.
And here I used to think I was funny. “I’ll tell you if I have any more problems with something inside the house though. Pinky swear.”
He didn’t look all that amused by my offer of a pinky swear, but that was okay. What he did do was nod just as Amos’s voice came through the opened garage door and carried outside. The boy crooned, not all that quietly before he seemed to catch himself and lower his volume.
And I couldn’t help but whisper, “Does he always sing like that?”
He raised one of those stern, thick eyebrows. “Like he’s had his heart broken and is never going to love again?”
Did he just . . . joke? “Yeah.”
He nodded.
“He’s got a beautiful voice.”
That’s when he did it.
He smiled.
Proud and wide, like he knew just how beautiful of a voice his child had and it filled him with joy. I couldn’t blame him; I would feel the same way if Am was my kid. He really did have a great voice. There was a ring to it that sounded timeless. The rarest part about it was that it was a lot lower than a boy his age usually had. It was easy to tell he’d had some kind of vocal training because he could project . . . when he forgot to be quiet.
“He doesn’t know it either. He thinks I’m lying when I tell him,” my landlord admitted.
I shook my head. “You’re not. He gave me goose bumps, see?” I lifted my arm so he could see the little pebbles that had set up shop under my skin. My shirt gave him a clear view of my entire arm. I’d forgotten I was wearing a spaghetti strap tank top that showed off a whole lot of cleavage—all of it. Okay, it was all of it. I hadn’t planned on seeing anyone the rest of the day, but Amos’s voice had been the pied piper to get me out of the garage apartment.
And I wasn’t the only one either since his dad was out here being sneaky and quiet to listen too.
Mr. Rhodes glanced at my arm about a split second before looking away just as quickly. He crouched down and took a seat on the top step again, stretching his long legs out and planting his feet on the stair below. Done with our conversation, I guess. Okay.
I stayed where I was and strained to hear Amos’s sweet voice croon about a woman he loved who wouldn’t return his calls.
I remembered a man I’d loved once singing about something very similar. But I knew all of those words. Because I’d written them.
That record alone had sold over a million copies. It was what many considered his breakout hit. A song I’d originally penned when I was sixteen and wanted my mom to call me back.
Half of his success had been his own. He had a face women loved . . . that he’d had absolutely nothing to do with since he hadn’t gotten to choose it. He’d made sure to keep his body fit to keep up his “sex appeal” for fans—I’d almost gagged when his mom had used those words. He’d taught himself how to play guitar, sure, but his mom had been the one to egg him into continuing to take lessons. But he’d been a natural performer. His voice a hoarse, gritty thing that he’d also been genetically blessed with.