Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“Athletics?” I venture.
I’ve seen a ton of schools spend their budgets on the local football team as a matter of town pride and donors with deep pockets who only care about one thing.
Nora gives me a wry look. “We have one lacrosse team that isn’t even technically part of the school. There are no sports to spend it on in Redhaven. Everything else, the kids get mixed in with other schools from the county.”
“I don’t know then.” That is weird. “The grounds look pretty well maintained, I guess? The buildings, too. Maintenance adds up. Are your textbooks new?”
“Fairly. They’re usually about a year or two out of date, but that’s another thing.” She’s got a sharp tongue, but she loves to talk. She jabs a finger at some invisible person she’s accusing. “There’s a new edition every year now! Textbooks used to be good for about a decade, and now every year we’ve got updates on old things that were wrong, updates on new things... Updates, updates, everywhere, and not a drop to think! How do we even try to keep up?”
“If only we could stop time,” I tease, laughing as I drop a few containers of finger paint into my cart. I might try making slime in class since the younger kids love a little tactile play—but the idea of cleaning up that much slime filled with dirt and crumbs is already making me cringe. “No, seriously. The world just changes at light speed now. Blame the interwebs, I guess.”
That wins me a gently amused look. “You sound older than me, Delilah. Complaining about the internet? Woof.”
“Hey.” I bump her with my shoulder. “I’m only twenty-four.”
“But is it like cats?” she asks innocently. “You know, a New York twenty-four is like a Redhaven fifty? So world-wise from the streets, right?”
“Oh, don’t you start too. I’m from New York, not Mars.” I laugh harshly. “Lucas keeps calling me Miss New York.”
“And you’re calling Lieutenant Graves by his first name. Scandalous,” she retorts.
Oh, crap.
I nearly squeak.
I hadn’t meant to let that slip, but then again, I hadn’t realized I’d slipped into calling him Lucas, either, just as easily as he calls me New York and now Miss Lilah.
“I-I mean,” I stammer. “He, um, helped me move. Lucas and Ulysses. Wouldn’t it be rude to keep calling him Lieutenant Graves?”
Nora purses her lips in a soft, appreciative whistle. “Both of them? Hot damn, girl.”
“It’snotlikethat!” I rush out, horrified. My voice carries over the aisles. I cough into my arm and drop my volume. “Oh my God, they just helped me move, Nora. They were only being nice.”
“Sure they were, sweetie.” Her voice is solemn, her mouth set in a grave line while her eyes are laughing up a storm. “Suuure they were.”
Feeling so hot I must be beet red up to my hairline, I shove her lightly again, making her giggle as she sways to the side. It turns into a playful pushing contest as we maneuver our way to the checkout and then pile our things into our cars before tailgating each other out of the giant lot. We head back to the more intimately packed shopping district, where we can park and just walk to the shops for the smaller things we need.
Or in my case, one big enchilada.
Last on my list is a decent bed and a mattress.
One night on an air mattress is more than enough, and a bed was the one thing I couldn’t just buy flat-packed and smushed into the back of my Kia.
There must be like a dozen furniture stores in town—more than any town this size could possibly need—but Nora says they mostly export to other markets, or sometimes build stock for tourist season, when people come in droves just to shop.
She’s very proud when she says North Carolina’s the furniture capital of the world, you know. Apparently, the good craftsfolk of Redhaven are just as much a part of the town’s history as stout beer, minutemen statues, moonshining hillfolk, rampaging pigs, hot cops, and fabulously rich weirdos.
It’s all getting expensive.
I’m starting to think I might end up living the air mattress life for a little bit longer—but when something grabs my attention, it’s not a bed.
It’s a gorgeous desk in shiny cherrywood, the color so deep and rich it’s like a horse’s hide. The craftsmanship is so beautiful it looks like it belongs in an ancient library full of literary wonders.
I stop dead in my tracks, resting my fingertips over the window.
I can see that desk in my classroom.
Me, standing behind it, smiling at my kids. That desk sets the tone of the entire room, turning it warm, welcoming, somewhere everybody loves to be. Such a pretty place to grade papers, too.
“Gorgeous, ain’t it?” Nora says with a touch of pride, stopping next to me. “This is why luxury furniture brands buy from Redhaven. You can’t beat anything from A Touch of Grey.”