Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
My chest cinches like a belt is strapped around it, as if it’s bracing me for the moment the brittle air between us shatters. An invisible pressure makes it difficult to breathe.
The top of the first box is already open. I peer inside … and try not to gasp. A myriad of items are crammed inside like a toddler was given the task. A skillet is wedged between a bathroom towel and a book. Bottles of supplements are strewn across the bottom. Are all the boxes like this? I open another one and find a bottle of shampoo hanging out with a coffee maker.
For a moment, all I can do is stare. This mess prickles every bit of my organizational-loving heart. Gray doesn’t need an assistant. The guy needs a mother.
I take a long, deep breath. Think of it as an opportunity to set something right in the world so you don’t crash out—even if that something is just Gray’s socks. Not sure where to start, I pull a smaller box from beneath a pair of shorts that seem to have been casually tossed on the stack like the star on a strange version of a Christmas tree. It’s lighter and rattles slightly. I open it carefully.
“Hey,” I say, pulling out the contents. “This is cool.”
A chessboard that appears to be handmade with a dark wood and teal-hued resin catches the light above me. A drawer is made into the bottom to hold the chess pieces. It’s heavy and solid and beautiful—and, thankfully, undamaged.
I glance up and catch Gray watching me. It’s only now that I realize I’ve been talking out loud.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you,” I say flippantly. “I was just admiring your board.”
He lifts a brow as if this surprises him. “Do you play?”
I place the board gently on the sofa.
“I love chess,” I say, grabbing another box and peering inside. “But I play mostly in my driveway.”
“In your driveway?”
“Some people sit in the driveway and listen to music,” I say, moving a few towels out of my view. “I sit in mine and play chess.”
“Why don’t you just play it in the house like everyone else on earth?”
It’s all kitchen stuff. “Because the habit started when I was avoiding going in the house.” I lift the hefty package, swallowing my groan, and carry it to the kitchen.
“Do you need my help?” he asks, setting his marker down.
“Nope.”
“Your face is turning red.”
I grimace, placing the load on the counter. “Kind of you to notice.”
He dips his chin and picks the marker back up. I think he mutters something under his breath, and it’s probably for the best that I can’t hear it.
I busy myself by finding a spot for his four seasonings, a trivet, and six kitchen towels that should be laundered before they’re used. A cutting board, I think, made of marble, weighs nearly as much as I do. Odd thing for him to have, but whatever. He has a can opener, two knives, and one measuring cup, and I leave them on the counter. Then I find another box of kitchen supplies and haul them into the room, too. It’s such a nice distraction from the situation with Trace.
This is not as bad as I imagined. Twenty minutes have passed, and not only have I made progress, but Gray and I haven’t killed each other. It’s a small victory I’m too happy to take. I appreciate the opportunity to create order somewhere since I can’t seem to do it in my own life. This also feeds a morbid curiosity about how he lives. It’s like running a background report on him without visiting a sketchy website for the information and risking getting a virus. And seeing photos I can’t unsee …
I find a few canned goods, but there’s no pantry in the kitchen. The logical place to put them is on the top shelf above the spices and protein powders, but I can’t quite reach. So I line up the cans so they’ll be easily accessible and then hop onto the counter.
“What are you doing?” Gray asks as if it’s killing him to watch me.
My knees dig into the countertops, and I balance myself. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“Looks like you’re trying to break an arm.”
“Don’t worry.” I grimace, trying to move around in the narrow space. “If that happens, I’ll drive myself to the hospital.”
He groans, huffing behind me. “Why don’t you just ask for help?”
“Because I don’t need it.” I place the cans perfectly equidistant from each other in the middle of the shelf. “You think I’m joking. I broke my arm in the third grade by jumping out of a swing on the playground. My dad was half in a bottle of vodka when I got home from school.” I add a final can of green beans to the lineup. “I couldn’t take the pain by dinner, so I walked to the hospital.”