Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
In my opinion, though, a real killer wouldn't want to draw attention to himself, so he’d make more effort to blend in, which means the “weirdos” like the Hunters are probably good, upstanding citizens.
But there's no convincing my parents when they're in this strange Tweedledee-and-Tweedledum mode, where they keep agreeing with each other and egging each other on, so I just nod along to their chatter while I eat my steak and drink my wine.
This is a nice dinner. I should try to enjoy it.
My parents work for the government, my mom at the DMV and my dad at the city planning department. All their lives, they've played by the rules, and it's worked out well for them. They managed to pay my tuition and still have a cushy nest to retire on.
They may be boring and judgmental, but what they've been doing obviously pays off.
Later, outside the restaurant, we say our goodbyes. But just as I hug my dad, I hear a deep, baritone voice greet my mom.
“Mrs. G, how have you been? Remember us?” the masculine voice asks.
“Of course I do,” comes my mom’s saccharine reply. “I’m doing great, thank you for asking. How are you?”
She tends to act extra polite to people she's gossiped about, probably so those same people won't suspect her of being the source of drama. Sometimes, I think if my mom and I were the same age and not related, she’d be one of the catty girls in school who’d be mean to me.
So because of the way she’s talking, before I even turn around to see who she's talking to, my heart races with possibilities.
I mean, the voice sounds vaguely familiar. And the only reason why someone would ask my mom if she remembered him is if they haven’t seen each other in a long time.
This guy could be one of the Hunter brothers.
As I let go of my dad, I quickly take stock of my appearance.
Luckily, my parents always insist on formal wear for our weekly dinners out, so I’m wearing a black lace dress that fits my curves snugly, while hiding the extra few pounds I’ve put on around my mid-section.
I had some time after school and before dinner, so I washed and curled my hair, too. It’s lustrous and voluminous with loose waves tumbling down my back.
I slide my bag over my front to cover whatever bulge may be showing.
I should’ve worn my Spanx. It’s tight and uncomfortable, especially when I have to sit through a filling dinner, but now I’m potentially meeting a Hunter for the first time after eight years, and I’m feeling fat.
Not good.
But a girl’s got to work with what she has.
I twist around and find not one, but three of the Hunter boys—well, they’re not boys now, actually, but that’s what I used to call them in my head.
The Hunter boys have dark hair and green eyes—apparently, Mrs. Hunter’s genes are more dominant than Mr. Hunter’s, because none of their kids have his red hair and freckled skin.
Liam, the oldest, has neat, trimmed stubble all over his chiseled jawline. Judging from his serious facial expression, he hasn’t changed much although he must be pushing thirty now, and the last time I saw him was when he was eighteen. There’s an air of quiet dignity around him that makes him seem far away and untouchable.
Mason stands between his brothers. He’s about an inch shorter than his brothers—in other words, still really tall by normal standards—but he has the biggest presence. Mason’s loud, outgoing, and assertive. He’s the life of the party, always grinning and taking things lightly. He’s flashing his straight rows of white teeth now.
Ollie, the youngest Hunter, was the one who greeted my mom. He’s always been the sweet, respectful one, who’d smile and make small talk with the neighbors. People our parents’ age love him—or, at least they did before Mr. and Mrs. Hunter got divorced. Ollie’s dark hair is curly and unruly, which matches his laid-back persona perfectly.
“Hi, Mr. G,” Ollie says to my dad, who just nods back at him. When he turns to me, his smile seems to stretch a little wider—although that’s probably just my imagination. With his dazzling green eyes fixated on me, he says, “You must be Ava.”
Ollie Hunter remembers me?
Oh my god, Ollie Hunter remembers me!
Heat floods my cheeks, making me grateful the Ashbourne City Council is filled with slowpokes who haven’t fixed the street light right above us, even though it’s been broken for weeks.
It’s dark in our corner of the main street, except for the warm glow that escapes from the restaurant where my parents and I just had dinner.
I hope he doesn’t notice me blushing.
“Ye—” My voice comes out small and squeaky, giving away my nerves. I clear my throat and try again. “Yes. You’re the Hunters, right? You used to live next door.”