Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
However, they didn’t consider that I set it at eight stories and not twelve because the soil wouldn’t hold up the weight. This idiot just added floors to make it look different as if I wouldn’t know it was my design.
“Well, good for you, then”—I laugh—“and good luck with fixing it.”
“You need to help me, all right?” he pleads, his voice in a panic. “They are threatening to—”
“Get,” I say, with my teeth clenched, “the. Fuck. Off. My. Property.” I grab him by the collar of his shirt. “And don’t fucking come back. You can also deliver that message to the Cartwrights. I want nothing to do with them.” I push off him before I jog up my steps and get into my house.
Shaking my head, I slam the door and head over to the fridge, grabbing a beer out of it as the thunder rolls in. I look out the window to see the Mercedes gone from in front of my house. The sky lights up at the same time the booming rolls in, sounding like two boulders hitting each other. My phone rings, and I look down and see it’s Saige.
“Hey, baby girl,” I greet her and hear rustling from her side.
“Daddy,” she says in a whisper, “I’m scared.”
“Oh, baby girl, where are you?” I ask and look outside to see the rain has started.
“In my bed and Mommy is in the shower.”
“It’s okay,” I soothe, walking over to the couch. “You’ll be fine. Are your shades closed?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she confirms, and I can tell she’s crying.
“It’s okay. Why don’t we talk until Mommy gets out of the shower?” I suggest. “What did you do today?” From the minute she was born, she hated the thunder and lightning. One night, it was so bad she was trembling, but it got a bit better as she got older. But the minute the thunder starts, she hides.
“Nothing, we did cookies, and then we had pizza,” she reports, and for twenty-five minutes, we talk about the little things. Her voice gets higher and higher, and I wish I was with her so I could hug her.
“Okay, Mommy is here,” she relays, and I smile.
“Love you, baby girl,” I say.
“Love you too, Daddy,” she replies before she hangs up. I place the phone on the table in front of me, the silence of the house almost deafening. I sit here in the family room and stare out the window at the storm that is brewing, wondering how much longer I can go on like this. How much longer before one of us finally snaps? How much longer can I pretend to hate her, when I know deep inside, I have never stopped loving her?
Chapter Nineteen
EVERLEIGH
“We’re going to be late!” my mother yells up the stairs for me as I’m exiting my room.
“We are not going to be late,” I huff as I walk down the steps and find her wearing almost the same outfit I’m wearing: black jeans and a white T-shirt, our hair also piled on top of our heads in a messy bun. “Look, we’re twinsies,” I joke, and she smiles at me.
“Okay, can we go now?” She claps her hands together. “I don’t want to keep them waiting.”
“Mom, they are contractors,” I say. “Their number one job is to always be late.” Again, the joke ends with me getting a smile before a glare.
We’re about to head out the door when I hear the sound of a motorcycle coming, and there is only one person I know who comes on this street with a motorcycle, and that’s Dr. Oliver. “Oh look, Mom,” I say, pointing at the street to see him getting off his bike and taking off his helmet. He runs his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Your boyfriend is here.” That earns me a smack on my arm. “Ouch.” I rub the spot where she hit me.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Then what is he?” I ask finally.
“He’s a friend.”
“With benefits.” Her glare should make me stop talking, but for once, I don’t. “Mom, why are you hiding this? He obviously cares about you, and you care about him.”
“Why do you say that?” She folds her arms over her chest.
“Well, for one, you haven’t killed him yet, and he’s been here every single night since you got out of the hospital.”
“He’s an old friend,” she reiterates, her eyes going to the door when it opens. “No more talk,” she says before she sets her eyes on Oliver. “What are you doing here?”
He shuts the door and puts his helmet down where he always does. “Good morning,” he greets as if my mother didn’t just ask him a question. “How are you feeling today?”
“Irritated,” she answers him. “You have to go; we are just leaving.”
“I know,” he says, walking over to the table by the door and picking up the keys to my mother’s car. “I’m coming with you.”