Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“You have Pops’s truck?” It comes out as a squeak. I hadn’t seen the old SUV for years. My grandfather had stopped driving it after a time, preferring the heated seats of a newer Volvo in his later years. Even so, too many memories were tied to the Grouch for me not to think of Pops.
A lump of emotion swells in my throat, as August watches me.
“Pops left it to me. I thought you knew.”
“No. I—ah, no. I didn’t think about what happened to it.” I pull myself together and give him a smile. “I’m happy you have it. I just didn’t think . . .”
In all honesty, when I’d been told about the trust and what it entailed, I’d assumed Pops had simply sold it off before he died.
August unlocks the trunk and deftly puts our suitcases inside. Tan carpeting lines the trunk. Shag carpeting in a trunk. It had always struck me as patently ridiculous. My eyes smart. Suddenly, I’m a blink away from crying.
“When I was in tenth grade,” he says, “I went to that football camp at USC.” Dark brows knit over stormy eyes. “Pegs and Pops let me and March stay with them for the rest of summer.”
“I went to visit Mom’s relatives in Italy that summer.”
“I remember. I was just a wee bit jealous of you going there.”
I hold back a laugh. If he only knew how much I’d wanted to come home when I’d learned August and March would be visiting the one year I was away the whole time. Upon reflection, I’m fairly certain that was arranged on purpose. Likely, my parents and grandparents had reservations about me sharing a house with the youngest Luck brothers all summer long. I’m still a little bitter about it, though.
August closes the trunk and guides me to the passenger door. He unlocks it. “Anyway, while I was there, Pops taught me to drive on this beast.”
“He did?” I grin at that. “Talk about a trial by fire.”
“I loved it.” He huffs out a small laugh. “Even if I was terrified the first few times I got behind the wheel. Felt like I was racing down the road in an out-of-control barge.” Glossy hair falls over his brow when he ducks his head. “Shocked the hell out of me when I got word that Pops had left it to me.”
“I’m glad you got it,” I say, fighting the urge to touch his arm. “I love the beast, but I never liked driving it. Clearly Pops knew you’d love it more.”
Raw emotion makes his voice thick. “I do. It means the world to me.”
I swear the ground tilts as if trying to push me into August, or into doing something ridiculous like hugging him close.
Flustered, I slide onto the worn leather seat and close my eyes for a moment. Gently, August closes the door, the familiar solid clunk of the metal ringing out in the quiet cabin. I open my eyes again when he lets himself into the driver’s side.
“It used to smell of wet dog, pipe smoke, and—”
“A whiff of old fish?” August supplies with a knowing look. Pops loved to fish off the Santa Monica Pier and bring home his catch, despite the fact that my grandmother, who everyone called Pegs, hated fish. “I had the car fully restored. Sorry to say that particular miasma of Grouch is no more.”
“I can’t say as I’ll miss the funk.” Although I do a little.
I think he knows that, because his expression gentles, then he starts the truck. It trembles and growls, my seat vibrating. I run my hand along the leather captain’s seat armrest as August takes us out into the California sun.
It’s always striking to me how different the light is here. In Boston, there is a bluish-gray tint to the world, a coldness even in the heat. Here, everything is softly golden. That gilded soft patina is beautiful to look at, but I am of quiet, dark libraries, cozy sitting rooms with roaring fires. Flirty skirts, sunbaked skin that gleams, and hair fluttering in the breeze aren’t me. But I still love LA.
August fits. Even with his winter-sky eyes, he fits. He’s a bit grim now, however. Frowning at the road as he easily maneuvers the Grouch through the snarls of LA traffic. The silence between us is a living thing breathing down my neck.
I can’t take it. “Are you ever going to tell me what the hell you meant by that ridiculous declaration?”
“Ridiculous.” It’s a mutter as he winces then changes lanes. “Way to kick a guy when he’s down.”
“I wasn’t aware you ever got down.”
Hot silver eyes shoot my way. “Why the hell would you think that?”
“And anyway, it isn’t an insult to call that . . . ” my voice gets a bit high and panicked, “marriage proposal—if that’s what it really was—‘ridiculous.’ Any nondrunk or drug-free person would agree.”