Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Suddenly, the room transforms into a sanctuary instead of a cage, yet my jealousy remains undeterred. I slip the battery out of my phone, snatch up my backpack, and then tug on my shoes like armed guards are sluggish during daylight hours.
Stealthily, I approach the door and press my ear to it. The only noise is the faint tick of an antique clock somewhere down the hall.
Carefully, I turn the key, flinching at its faint click, then slowly open the door. The hallway is dark because thick curtains obscure the morning sun. Hugging the wall, I move quickly past closed doors that announce most of the household is still asleep.
I halt at the bottom of the grand staircase upon hearing the distant clatter of crockery. A maid’s voice trills through the swinging doors near a large dining table, followed by a butler’s low reply. I don’t catch all their words, but what I hear gets my feet moving. They’re preparing breakfast, which will be served in ten minutes.
Holding my breath, I dart across the marble floor of the dining room. Cool air slaps my cheeks as I slip through a side door. I arrive at the lemon grove before I know it, and for some stupid reason, the citrusy tinge in the air is more comforting than confronting.
After reaching the clearing I wrestled with Giovanni in last night, I quickly gather my bearings. I could keep running, but the dimming glimmer of Carlisle’s lights last night when I stared out the window, plotting my freedom, confirmed a walk to town isn’t feasible.
My ears perk up when the distinct grind of an engine starting breaks through the quiet. I hide behind lemon trees as I advance toward the sound. A truck is being loaded at the end of the orchard. The back is filled with crates of lemons.
A stocky man wearing a cap is speaking with a worker who is loading the shipment. “The dock, yeah?”
“Yeah,” the worker answers. “Boss’s orders.” After signing the delivery slip on the clipboard, he hands it to the driver. “Make sure you give this to the exporter.”
My curiosity piques. Can you still make money exporting lemons? I thought that trade went extinct when World War II ended. Lemons were highly sought-after during the war era because of their high vitamin C content, which was crucial for preventing and treating scurvy.
If my eighth-grade history teacher could hear me now, he’d be proud. I halt gloating about the information I obtained from school when the driver slams the truck’s loading doors closed. Mercifully, he doesn’t lock them before he heads to the cab, still grumbling.
When the workers head for the warehouse after waving the driver off, I race for the truck.
I’ve only just slipped into the cargo area when the driver flattens his foot to the gas pedal. I brace myself between two crates when his reckless speed reminds me of the truck that nearly mowed me down weeks ago.
My choice of transport is less than ideal, but its destination is perfect. My aunt works at the docks, and since she’s on her feet all day, she chose an apartment only a thirty-minute walk away.
As the truck winds down a twisty road, I press my forehead to the cold metal of the crate and try to control the panic flaring in my chest. Although I’m free, I feel more disappointed than relieved. The last seventy-eight hours were hair-raising, but they felt more fulfilling than the previous three years combined. There’s something addictive about living life in the fast lane.
Several miles later, the truck jolts to a stop. The air in the dock’s main distribution warehouse is stale and tinged with danger. Footsteps surrounding the cab of the truck signal it isn’t safe to slip out yet, so I sink deeper between the two crates.
Shortly after, the truck’s rear doors bang open and sunlight streams in. I squint to protect my eyes before peering through the gap between the crates. While complaining about the mechanical lift being broken, the driver thrusts the clipboard with the delivery slip at a man on his right, then gestures for him to enter the truck.
The stranger isn’t what I expected when picturing a lemon exporter. If he’s a citrus lover, I’ll eat my hat. He looks as dangerous as Giovanni—if not more so. His accent is a blend of Russian and American, though it is his appearance that truly catches my attention. Sleeves of tattoos snake up his muscular arms and neck, and his face is devilishly handsome.
If I had to guess his age, I’d say he’s in his early thirties.
He doesn’t greet the driver with a smile, nor does he accept the clipboard. Instead, he roots him in place with a steely look that matches the iciness of his eyes.
“You’re late.” His voice is low and commanding. “I don’t like people being late. It wastes time I could have spent with my head buried between my wife’s legs.” The driver mumbles something about traffic, but the exporter isn’t having it. “I value my time with my ahren more than your excuses, so let’s cut to the chase.”