Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“No,” I admit, gripping the spoon a little tighter. “He didn’t.”
I’ve been daydreaming about going to see him in Arizona but know I can’t afford it.
My pasta water finally starts to boil, little bubbles rising to the surface, but my thoughts are suddenly nowhere near my kitchen.
“Right. So let me get this straight—he’s offering to see you again, and you’re over here acting like you two are Romeo and Juliet, doomed from the start?”
I scowl. “That’s not—”
“It is, though,” she interrupts, amused. “You’re grieving something that isn’t even dead. You’re so busy bracing for impact that you won’t even let yourself be happy.”
Well. When she puts it in those terms . . .
I groan. “This is a disaster.”
Annabelle cackles. “Babe, this is romance.”
I roll my eyes and stab at my pasta with a wooden spoon. “If this is romance, it’s stressful.”
The sound of her bathwater sloshing in the background fills the silence. Then, “Love is supposed to be a little stressful. That’s what makes it interesting.”
Interesting? Ha!
Before I can respond, a thump echoes from the living room.
I freeze. The kind of freeze where your whole body goes rigid, your breath locks in your throat, and your heart hammers so hard it rattles your ribs.
“Annabelle.” My voice drops to a whisper.
She doesn’t catch on to my fear. “Oh no. Did I break you? Are you having a feelings-induced crisis? Because if so, I am so proud of yo—”
“Shh!” I hush her, clutching the phone tighter, straining to listen for more sounds. “I think someone’s outside.”
Silence.
Then—
“What?” Annabelle is suddenly alert. I hear more sloshing as she sits up in her tub. “What do you mean, someone is outside?”
Another thump—closer this time. A scrape against the glass.
I grab the nearest weapon, which happens to be a wooden spoon, because of course. “I heard something by the window.”
“Lucy,” Annabelle hisses. “Are your doors locked?”
Panic floods my chest. My front door is locked . . . but is it? Did I lock it when I walked the groceries up? My brain scrambles, trying to retrace my steps from earlier.
Another noise. A soft rustling, like someone—or something—is moving outside. A wild animal? A cat?
My grip tightens on the spoon. “Shit. What if it’s a murderer?”
“Ya think?” Annabelle practically screeches. “Call the police. Now.”
“It’s coming from the window.”
I inch toward the living room, keeping my steps light, heart slamming against my ribs. The curtains are drawn, but there’s a faint shadow shifting against the window.
I barely manage to swallow the fear in my throat. “There’s definitely something out there.”
Annabelle curses. “Lucy, do not open the door. Call someone—call Harris for the love of G—”
Before I can answer, a loud bang erupts against the glass.
I scream.
Annabelle screams with me.
And then—
A low, snuffling grunt.
I clutch my chest, heart racing. “OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod,” I chant.
Annabelle is still screaming in my ear. “What is it? What’s Happening? Are you dead?”
I suck in a sharp breath and continue forward, my grip tightening on the wooden spoon as if it were a real weapon. The shadow outside shifts again, larger this time—less wild animal, more horrifying intruder.
My stomach plummets.
I reach for the curtain, fingers shaking. Slowly, I peel it back an inch—
And that’s when I see him.
“Harris?”
Harris is mid-climb, scaling my window like some kind of deranged burglar. His hands are gripping the window ledge, one boot most likely planted in the vine trellis, muscles straining as he tries to—what? Break in?
The second I shout his name, he startles.
And then?
He falls.
“Oh Sh—”
Thud.
I wince as he lands hard in the bushes below with a loud groan.
“Holy shit!” I scream. “Oh my God!”
Annabelle is shrieking at full volume in my ear. “What? What Happened? Are you Murdered?”
I don’t think. I move.
Barefoot, heart pounding, I dash down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet in my rush to get to the front door. The second I fling it open, I sprint toward the driveway, phone still clutched in one hand as Annabelle shouts in my ear.
“Lucy?! Are you dead? Blink Twice if you’re dead.”
“I Can’t Blink if i’m Dead, Annabelle!” I screech back, my brain operating at peak useless-panic mode. “For the Love of God!”
The garbage cans are toppled over, their contents spilling onto the pavement as if ransacked by a gang of raccoons. And right in the middle of the mess?
Harris.
Sprawled out. On his back. Arms spread. A butter wrapper stuck to his shirt.
I skid to a stop, hands on my knees, breathing hard. “Harris, are you—”
“I’m fine,” he groans loudly. He sounds pained. He shifts, trying to sit up, and an empty soup can rolls off his stomach. “Okay, maybe not fine.”
Annabelle is still screaming in my ear. “Is it a Burglar? Did he kill harris? Is There Blood?”
I press a hand to my forehead. “It’s Harris.”
Silence.
Then:
“You mean to tell me this entire moment was caused by Harris being a moron?”