Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
A rock. Someone threw a fucking rock through my window.
That can’t be an accident. But who the hell would come all the way out here on my first night home to do this?
Nobody with good intentions, that’s who.
Fear and anger explode as I rush down the stairs, fumbling for switches until I find one that bathes the garage in dull light. On impulse, I grab the first thing within reach on the workbench—a pipe wrench—and charge for the backside of the garage. Slapping on the floodlight, I shove open the sliding barn door, my fist wrapped around the cold metal, ready for whoever’s waiting.
Four startled female faces stare back at me.
It’s the farthest one away that my focus snags on. “Emery.” It’s not a question, there’s no doubt it’s her, even though all hints of the girl I knew are gone. This version has aged gracefully, with slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes and a permanent line where she’s spent too many years furrowing her brow. Her mane of streaked strawberry-blond hair is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail, highlighting sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw.
“Logan.” Her green eyes are wide as they roam over me, and in that instant, I remember that I’m down to navy boxers, the cold nipping at my bare skin. And holding a pipe wrench.
I toss it to the ground as if it ignited in my grip. “I thought you were someone else.” Plaid ranch jackets hang on wall-mounted pegs nearby. I hastily grab one and slip it on. It’s at least two sizes too small, and I’m fully aware of how ridiculous I look.
She clears her throat and levels a stern glare on the three teenage girls shifting on their feet. “Who wants to explain?” she asks, as if reading my mind.
“We didn’t think it would break the glass,” one says, her nervous gaze flickering to me. I don’t need an introduction to know this is Emery’s daughter, Isla. The resemblance is uncanny, in the shape of her eyes and nose, in the color of her hair.
I hold up the golf ball–size rock with jagged edges. “You didn’t think this would break glass?”
“Jesus,” Emery mutters, shaking her head.
“We just wanted you to come hang by the fire with us,” another says, her fingers twirling a strand of platinum-blond hair as curious eyes trace the scar where Travis Dorsey impaled me with a shiv made from a filed-down toothbrush handle.
I may have been locked up for the past twenty years, but I’m no idiot. This one’s flirting.
And, I think, drunk.
“So, you thought vandalizing his home was a good idea?” Emery scoffs.
“Obviously we didn’t mean to,” Isla’s voice cracks with frustration.
“Oh, yes. Obviously.”
“You’re blowing things out of proportion, just like you always do!”
“Always?” Emery’s jaw tenses and then something seems to snap. She turns to me, her posture straightening as she says smoothly, “Mr. Landry, would you like me to call an on-duty officer to handle this?”
So this is Emery in cop mode. I have to say, I’ve had more than my share of dealings with law enforcement and none of them have ever been this attractive—even in rubber boots and a jacket tossed on over pajamas.
All three sets of young eyes widen with panic. They believe she’ll do it. Maybe she will. I don’t know this Emery.
I want nothing to do with charging teenage girls, but clearly this is about teaching a lesson. “I’ll let it slide this time.”
Emery’s shoulders dip with relief, as if she really would have gone through with it had my answer been different. “Apologize to Mr. Landry, girls.”
I don’t miss the emphasis on Mr. and girls, as if to remind all of us about the massive age gap.
A chorus of mumbled apologies follows.
“Isla, put the fire out and get inside. I want to see Cody’s car heading down our driveway within the next five minutes, with Holly and Paige in it. I’ll be calling your parents tomorrow morning to let them know what happened. They can decide how you’ll pay your share of the window repair.”
The third girl hasn’t said a word, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Isla huffs and opens her mouth.
“Now!” Emery barks, pointing toward her house.
Their shoulders hunch as they march through the dark, the blond stealing a last glance at me. I don’t miss the coy smile.
Neither does Emery, I suspect. “Clock’s ticking!” she hollers.
They pick up the pace, their whispered curses carrying.
Gooseflesh erupts over my skin, but I ignore the chill, this moment too surreal to be disturbed by discomfort. I’ve known Emery for almost four decades, even if half that time was in my memory, and here she is—the girl who pelted me with snowballs and played hide-and-seek for hours within the crops of trees. She looks like the girl I grew up with and yet also nothing like her.