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)
His hands hang helplessly at his sides.
“You’ll call if you need anything?” Lucas nods slowly, heaving a deep breath.
There’s an implication there.
A promise.
He doesn’t just mean if my crazy ex shows up, or someone new comes creeping around my house, or my alarm goes off, or I discover something shocking about Emma Santos.
He means me.
If I need anything.
If I need him.
I’m not sure what to do with that.
I hardly know anything about him except that he’s kind underneath his snarls and smart-assery. Ever since I’ve shown up here, he’s done everything humanly possible to help me feel safe and like someone in this town gives a damn.
And I know that he knows how it feels to miss someone.
But the rest is as mysterious as that look anchored in the second-guesses flashing in his eyes.
I smile unevenly. I can’t help it.
“I will,” I tell him. “I promise.”
Lucas just looks at me a minute longer.
He always seems on the verge of saying something, only to reel it back in at the last second.
He bows his head, raking a hand through his thick black hair, a slow gesture that’s weariness and confusion.
Then he pulls the door open and walks out, leaving me alone with a deafening click of the latch.
I slump back against the desk, still trembling—then jerk away from it.
I need to clean this place ASAP. I’m not leaving sloppy seconds for some poor janitor.
But I almost don’t want to touch it.
I don’t want to touch this desk after we just fucked on it.
Maybe it’s just in my head, but there’s this weird feeling like it’s the same as touching Ulysses, touching Montero...
That’s something so complicated and weird I can’t even think about it right now.
I still don’t understand them, or why they want to shower me with insane gifts.
But as I move, something flutters against my ankle.
The note.
It must have fallen to the floor while we were busy.
The jewelry box, too, still holding the bracelet with those weird Xs in rose gold coiled on the floor.
I bend down to pick up the box, the bracelet, and the slip of parchment paper—only to realize there’s something written on the back I hadn’t noticed before.
A phone number.
Frowning, my brows pull together.
I wonder.
I guessed it might be Ulysses’ number—his personal cell, not the extension for the town council that goes directly to his rarely occupied desk.
I wish I knew how to feel about being right. But I have questions, and only answers will put my mind at ease.
So I curl up in my brand-new bed topped with fresh sheets and give him a call.
“Miss Clarendon.” He sounds delighted when he picks up. “How are you today?”
Deliciously sore and well used, I think, but of course I don’t say that out loud.
I doubt he’d think of me as harmless Miss Clarendon then.
Funny how I’m Miss something to everyone here, even to the man who bent me over a desk and made me scream.
I needed time to myself after Lucas left. So after a good deep cleaning, I spent all day putting up maps and colorful alphabet posters and bright cartoons of historic figures designed to engage young learners.
All soothing, repetitive tasks that kept me focused on why I was really here instead of turning myself in circles over Lucas and the fact that every time I moved, I still felt him.
My mind is stuck in that moment and it doesn’t want to move on, no matter how I try to rip myself away.
And I realize I’m doing it again, lying there drifting off and thinking of that hurt, haunted look in his eyes, all the things he wouldn’t say.
“Miss Clarendon? Are you there? Is something wrong?” Ulysses asks.
“Oh!” I snap back into myself, startled and clearing my throat. I press my palm to my overheated cheek. “Sorry, it’s just been a long day. I called to thank you.”
“Ah. I take it you found my gift? Even if it was technically a gift from the town and my father.” Ulysses sounds too smug.
“Yes, I’m over the moon with it, really... but that desk is so expensive. Are you sure it’s okay and it isn’t a little too much?”
“Consider it our sincerest thank you,” he says confidently. “When the last elementary teacher quit, we were left holding the bag, you know. So a nice welcome gift to show our appreciation is nothing. We want you to feel at home, Miss Clarendon. Ideally, we’d like to keep you.”
The way he says we is a little odd, but I guess he means the town.
“Why did the last teacher quit?” I ask.
“She wasn’t cut out for Redhaven. Not a good fit for the pace here. She complained her online deliveries took more than a week to arrive,” he says dryly. “I do hope you’re more adaptable to the rigors of small-town life.”