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)
I wouldn’t have thought about that. Good call.
I take the items they chose and hang them on the back of my bedroom door. Having this decision be over quells a bit of the nerves blooming in my stomach. At least now I can worry and overthink about something else.
“Now that’s done, how about we order pizza and do your nails? They look like trash,” Gianna says, shrugging. “You can’t go to all the trouble of having us pick out an outfit and not do your nails.”
“I’ll order the pizza,” Audrey says, heading toward the living room. “You figure out the nails.”
Gianna wraps her arm around my shoulders and smiles at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Honestly? Better.”
I smile sheepishly. Gray and I are barely on cordial terms these days, and our relationship is strictly professional. I don’t even really like the man, and I know he feels the same about me. So what I wear on this trip doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m trying to draw his attention—or anyone else’s, for that matter. I deal with enough men in my work life. I sure as heck don’t need one in my private life, too.
“I don’t know why I got all weird about this,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
She laughs. “You don’t have to understand. I do. And we got you, friend. One of these days, you’re going to believe that.”
My heart swells as she leads me to the bathroom to retrieve my manicure kit.
Thank God for good friends.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Astrid
“That’s probably the last book I’ve read,” Gray says, stepping on the gas pedal and passing the slow-moving tractor we’ve followed for more than a couple of miles. “What about you?”
I gaze out the passenger side window, taking in the beauty of rural Tennessee. I’ve always loved getting out of the city. Gianna’s family would visit Kentucky every summer, and I tagged along a few times. Even as a child, I appreciated the peace and quiet, probably because my home life had neither.
Today has been a lot easier than I expected. I spent the morning ordering supplies for Blakely’s party and communicating with Wayside about Gray’s deliverables for the sports drink campaign scheduled to run this fall. It was just enough to keep me from stressing over Gray picking me up at one thirty for our trip to Sugar Creek.
“The last book I read was probably Romeo and Juliet or The Great Gatsby in high school,” I say.
Gray makes a face, looking offended.
“What?” I ask, laughing.
“I just … expected more from you. That’s all.”
“Don’t judge me.” I shake my head, amused. “I haven’t had a lot of free time since high school. Some of us weren’t rugby stars with leisure time.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Should’ve seen all the leisure time that I’ve had to play with.” He looks at me over the top of his sunglasses. “What kind of overachieving bullshit were you up to after high school, anyway?”
I chuckle, wrapping my arms around my middle, and shrug. “Let’s see. I graduated at seventeen and took on my second job. Worked both of those for a full year until I started community college.” I glance over at him. “Then I added a third job for shits and giggles.”
He flinches. “Third job? What are you? Wonder Woman?”
“That sounds better than saying that I refuse to die.”
His brows pull together atop his sunglasses. “What’s that mean?”
The sun is warm on my face as I watch the greenery slide past my window. I’ve already said more to him than I usually tell people—and verbalized it in a more genuine way, to boot. For some reason, I don’t feel the squish of my stomach, warning me to stop talking, though. It’s probably because I don’t care what he thinks of me. It’s actually nice just talking without hyperfocusing on every single word leaving my lips.
“I mean that I moved out of my father’s house at seventeen,” I say, sagging into the seat. “Found a studio apartment that I could afford in the Pliny Building and finished the last couple of months of high school.”
“Your dad let you move out at seventeen?”
“Let me is a creative way to say it. Hey,” I say, sitting up, “is that a covered bridge?”
I lean forward as we approach the red structure with a black roof. It’s wide enough for two lanes of traffic to pass each other and not much more. Beneath the bridge is a slow-moving creek bubbling and meandering through the landscape.
“Yeah,” Gray says, slowing the truck. “Welcome to Sugar Creek.”
The tires rumble across the wooden boards of the bridge as we travel over it, the sound echoing, bouncing off the graffiti-stained walls on either side. Black birds line the rafters and watch us like little silent inspectors deciding whether we’re worthy to visit the town or not.
“This is like a movie,” I say, squinting against the sun as we pull out of the tunnel.