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)
“For what?” I watch the exchange going back and forth, really wishing I was taping this showdown.
“Well, for one, I want to make sure you follow my instruction on not overexerting yourself. And for two, I want to make sure everything is what the two of you want.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” my mother retorts, “but I don’t have time to argue with you, so let’s go.” She grabs her purse before walking out of the house.
“That went well.” Oliver looks at me.
“She didn’t stab you in the foot with a fork,” I joke. “It’s the best you are going to get.”
“Why a fork?” he asks, and the memory of Brock assaults me.
“So it’s more painful, obviously. Four entry wounds.”
“You are your mother’s daughter.” He shakes his head, walking out of the house. I follow them out and into the car.
Putting my phone in my back pocket, I get into the back seat as Oliver gets in the front seat, and we take off for the bakery. My eyes look out the window as my mind goes back to yesterday when I showed up at the garage.
After he said what he did and left me there sitting on his fucking workstation, I jumped off and ran out, not looking back. I also decided that I was done. He probably did this to get another rise out of me, except I’m all out of fight. I have nothing left to give him. There was nothing that needed to be said. There was nothing that needed to be done. We are both adults, and we can coexist in the same town.
We pull up to the bakery, and I gasp when I see the coffee truck parked in the middle of the lot at an angle so everyone can see it from the street. “Oh my God,” I say of the truck that is painted all white with the writing that says The Best Coffee and Sweets in Town. “Momma.” I reach out to touch her shoulder as she looks out her own window, and I see tears running down her face.
“It’s so pretty,” she states, getting out of the car when Oliver puts it in park and shuts it down.
We walk, holding hands, up to the truck, and I see Ryan running over from the garage. “Hey,” he pants, “Brock just drove the truck over and forgot to leave the keys.” He holds up the keys for me. I fight the pull to look over at the garage and look for him. Ignore the way my heart speeds up just thinking about him. How my body aches for his touch and my heart yearns for him. Even though my head tells me I hate him.
“Thank you so much,” my mother says. “I can’t wait to see inside.”
“I’ll see you around,” Ryan replies, nodding to us before running back to the shop.
“He’s nice, isn’t he?” My mother pushes my shoulder with hers. “He’s good-looking, has a good job, and he’s a sweet man.”
I look over at her. “Then you should date him,” I retort, knowing what she was getting at.
She glares at me as Oliver chuckles but grabs her hand as we walk into the shop. It’s the first time my mother has been back since the night of the fire. She gasps, and I can hear her sob a little. Her hand goes to her mouth as she looks at the gutted space. Literally gutted with nothing there but the four walls that were salvaged. “It’s finished.”
“It’s not finished.” Oliver takes her in his arms. “It’s a clean slate is all.”
“Stop doing that.” She pushes away from him. “You always do the glass half full. It’s fucking half empty.” Instead of arguing with her, all he does is nod his head. She turns in a circle. “Is it even worth it?”
“You tell me,” I urge her. “Do you want to throw in the towel and close shop?” I raise my eyebrows. “Or do you want to rebuild and make it better than ever? Put your stamp on things the way you want them and not how you inherited it.”
She shrugs when the door opens, and I see the contractor enter. “Hey,” he says. “Jensen.” He extends his hand to mine. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes,” I reply, extending my hand to him. “I’m Everleigh and this is my mother, Madeline, and her friend, Oliver,” I introduce, earning me a chuckle from Oliver. “What? I don’t know what to label you.”
I look at Jensen, who just rolls his lips to stop from laughing. “Shall we get started?” I ask, and he nods, walking over to the middle of the room and squatting down before unrolling the plans.
My mother squats down next to him and looks at the plans. “This looks like scribble writing to me,” she admits. “I’m going to need you to just explain this.”