Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
He knew he was leaving her. A long time ago.
And he assumed I wouldn’t notice before the divorce was final. He was almost right.
I didn’t find anything in Mars’s or Paisleigh’s names, and there’s more that I own, but I’m not going to sell everything off yet.
“No waiting, huh?” Mr. Hewlitt teases. “Leaving the country?”
I smile small. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He hands me my copy of the documents, and I shake his hand. “Nice doing business with you.”
“And you,” he says. “These will fetch a good profit. Thank you.”
A great profit. I sold them to him for much less than my father paid, and art doesn’t go down in value.
I rise, my earring swaying across my neck, and I wet my lips, because the lipstick coating my mouth feels dry like clay. I slip my forearm through the handles of my Gucci bag and take my paperwork with me.
My phone rings, and I nod a goodbye to Jack.
Fishing the phone out of my bag, I see my father’s name on the screen. I changed it to Lachlan Conroy instead of Dad months ago.
“Hello?” I answer.
“You’ve been busy.”
I shudder a little at the curtness of his voice. I almost forgot.
He always sounds like someone who’s jetting from one meeting to another. A little rushed. Distracted. Bothered. He doesn’t have an accent, but he adds one on purpose. Just on a word here and there. An inflection at the end of a sentence maybe. Sometimes it sounds Scottish. Most of the time it’s some weird concoction of British and Bostonian.
“Krisjen, listen to me—”
“No.” I walk slowly, heading to the front door of the gallery.
“We have asked for you. Mars and Paisleigh have asked for you, but now that I’m selling property you hid in my name … Now I warrant your attention?”
It’s in my name. I’m eighteen. He can scramble to get back what I haven’t yet sold, but he’ll have to find it first. The first thing I did was hide everything.
“We should talk,” he tells me.
I agree.
“Wolfe Room,” I state. “Tonight. Eight o’clock.”
“How do you know about that room?”
I hang up, walk out the door, and step onto the sidewalk. How does he know about that room is the question?
I’m glad I didn’t let him keep me on the phone. Part of me still remembers back when he was a good father, and it hurts. Paisleigh has never known that version of him.
The wind blows through my hair and across the sliver of stomach left bare in my sleeveless white blouse. I step in my heels, one foot after the other in my tight, white pants, barely noticing the boys until they’re there.
Army. Dallas. Trace.
My heart leaps in my chest. It’s been days, but it feels like years. The Bay seems so far away.
Army isn’t wearing a shirt. A major no-no on Main Street in St. Carmen, and Trace wears a green T-shirt. It matches his eyes.
I see them, they see me, and I slow, thinking they’re going to stop. Time halts as I wait for it.
But they don’t.
And neither do I.
Army passes me, his familiar eyes following me over his shoulder as he goes.
Trace and Dallas veer around me, glancing at me but continuing without a word. My heart splits.
I don’t know if I keep walking, or how I get to my car down the street, but when I look back, they’re gone.
And that’s how easily things can change.
30
Macon
“A little higher,” I tell Santos.
He grunts, exhaling, “’Kay.”
We lift the beam, the sun beating down as we balance high on the scaffold and I drill a bolt through the wood. The handheld tool stutters, signaling the bolt is tightened.
“Got it?” he asks.
“Yep.”
He releases the beam, taking out a bandanna and wiping down his face. People work below, the walls rising quickly while Dallas pulls up with a truckload of Sheetrock.
“Five extra bedrooms, huh?” Santos laughs. “You making plans?”
“Just making room for the unexpected.”
“Yeah, that’s usually how babies happen.”
He laughs again, and I let him. The new addition onto the house will fill up faster than we know, and I want it to be ready. Iron will get out of prison, and I don’t want the lack of space to be an excuse for Army to leave. Or Dallas or Trace. Liv will always have her room here, but at least I can count on that one not to give me any surprise nieces or nephews until she’s absolutely ready.
“You know,” Santos tells me, “my wife’s sister does interior painting. When it’s time to drywall and decorate, I could have her stop by to meet you.”
I rotate the wrench, tightening the bolt.
“She’s pretty. And a good girl.”
I stare at the beam.
“It wouldn’t be a date,” he assures me. “Just one night y’all happen to work late and then you take it from there. I’m sure you remember how.”