Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Sounds like your mean boss should give you more time off,” Xander said with a meaningful look in my direction.
I rolled my eyes and rinsed out my coffee mug, placing it in the dishwasher. “Let’s get that table loaded so we can hit the road.”
Veronica was quieter than usual on the four-hour drive to Saugatuck, where I delivered the table I’d made to a home owned by Gus’s nephew Quentin and his husband, Pierre. They’d seen a table I’d made for Gus and his wife last winter when they’d visited and begged Gus to tell them where he’d found it.
After we’d brought the table into their dining room, they asked me about the wood, and I gave them the details about where I’d salvaged the old cedar planks and how I’d transformed them.
“It’s just incredible,” Pierre said with a slight French-Canadian accent. “Are you sure you won’t make another for us to sell on consignment at the gallery?”
“Gallery?” Veronica piped up.
“We own an art and antiques gallery in town,” Quentin explained. “And we think something like this would interest many high-end customers. You’d probably have a dozen orders by the end of the summer. What do you think, Austin?”
“I don’t really have that kind of time.” I felt Veronica’s eyes on me, but I didn’t meet them. “It’s really just a hobby.”
“Let us know if you change your mind,” said Pierre. “We want to be your first call.”
While Quentin wrote me a check, Pierre gave Veronica a quick tour of their home, which was also a bed and breakfast. Her laugh rang out from the front parlor, and we both looked in that direction. Veronica had a great laugh, deep and loud and joyful.
“Your wife is so lovely,” Quentin said. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“I’m not. Veronica and I are just friends. Actually, she’s the nanny—I’m a single dad.”
“Oh, you have children! But you didn’t bring them?”
“No, they’re visiting their mom in California for a week. I just brought Veronica along to—to—” I groped for a word to appropriately finish the sentence, and Quentin took pity on me, patting my shoulder.
“I understand completely,” he said.
After we delivered the table, we stopped into a small sandwich shop for lunch. I ordered a meatball sub, and Veronica ordered a B.L.T. Seated across from each other in a booth, I watched her take a bite or two, then lose interest.
“Do you want something else?” I asked.
“No.” She wrapped up what was left and pushed it away from her. “It’s just my stomach is a little weird.”
I took another bite and observed her sip her iced tea. “You nervous about running into him?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to be.” My protective instincts were sharp today. “I’ll be there the whole time. He won’t come anywhere near you.”
“I’m not afraid of him like that. It’s just, he might—he might say things that hurt me. Or embarrass me.” She scratched at a chip in the tabletop with her thumbnail. “I don’t want you to hear them.”
I finished my sandwich in one bite and balled up the wrapper, wondering how mad she’d be if I punched this guy on sight just for fun. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She smiled, but it was half-hearted.
“I mean it. The only one who should be worried is your dipshit ex. If he so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll cold-cock him in the jaw.”
“No!” She shook her head. “Do not get rough with him, Austin. He’d probably call security. Just . . . no. Leave him to me.”
I sighed and sat back. “And you guys call me a party pooper. I was looking forward to the chance to drop that asshole like a bag of dirt.”
“I’m sorry, but no,” she said firmly. “It’s bad enough I’m dragging you down there, taking up your whole day. I don’t want you thrown in jail on top of it. Then who’d drive me home?”
I laughed. “Now she tells it like it is.”
She smiled, and it looked real this time. “Seriously. I do appreciate this. I hope you know that.”
“I do.”
“I just want to handle him on my own, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
But first we had to deal with the uncooperative doorman. Neil had, of course, given instructions that Veronica was not allowed on the premises. My contempt for her ex grew as I watched her argue and plead.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton,” the doorman said. “I can’t let you in. Mr. Vanderhoof expressly forbid it.”
“Tony, come on,” she begged. “You know me. I lived here for a year. My clothes are still here. That’s all I want.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and he did look apologetic. “But I have my orders from management.” He lowered his voice. “It’s my job.”
“I understand,” said Veronica. “But isn’t there anything you can do?”
“If I let you into the lobby, you could ask the concierge to call him,” Tony suggested. “Maybe he’d give the okay.”