Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
A brass placard beside the building’s door reads Goody Gershwin, Attorney at Law, Est. 1993.
“You have arrived at your destination,” my GPS informs me.
I pull into an angled parking spot beside an enormous candy-apple-red pickup truck. It also appears to be from 1993, its windows rolled down to reveal a front bench seat upholstered in faded gray fabric. A box set of Brooks & Dunn’s greatest hits sits on the passenger side of the bench.
It’s a box set of cassette tapes.
Maybe I really have gone back in time.
The heat hits me like a slap to the face the second I hop out of my car. It radiates off the blacktop and singes my bare legs.
At the same time, the sun bears down on my head and shoulders from above. It’s like being pressed inside a griddle.
Looping my bag over my shoulder, I wonder why the hell anyone would live out here. What did Dad see in this place?
I can’t believe I’m actually here. I can’t believe he’s actually gone.
Most of all, I can’t believe I lost the chance to ever make things right between us.
Grief, mixed with a hefty dose of anger, sits on my chest like an elephant.
A literal bell jangles above the door as I enter the building. It’s blessedly cool inside the office. The familiar scent of brewing coffee makes me feel slightly less discombobulated.
A young man with round glasses smiles up at me from a nearby desk. “You must be Mollie Luck. Welcome! I’m Zach, Goody’s paralegal.” He rounds the desk and holds out his hand. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? I hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”
I take his hand. “Three hours. Not terrible. Nice to meet you, Zach. And I’m fine, thanks.”
He eyes my metallic-pink boots. “Those are spectacular.”
“Aw, thank you. They’re part of my boot company’s most recent collection.”
“You own a boot company?” A woman with short, dark hair in a light-colored linen suit emerges from a door to my left. She appears to be wearing a bolo—black, silver buckle—without a trace of irony. “How amazing!”
“They’re manufactured right here in Texas.”
The woman’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at me. “Even better. I’m Goody Gershwin. Nice to finally meet you, Mollie. Your dad talked about you often. He was so proud of you.”
My eyes burn, and my heart twists. Was Dad proud of me? He never showed it. Definitely never said it. But I’d like to think he’d be a little proud of how I turned out at least.
I paste on a smile. “Nice to meet you too.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. The community here has taken Garrett’s death hard, but I can only imagine how tough it’s been for y’all.”
A piercing ache shoots through my heart and settles in the back of my throat. “The community” must’ve been a lot closer to Dad than I was. Then again, no one except Mom, Mom’s parents, Wheeler, and I showed up to his funeral in Dallas three months ago, so who knows?
“I appreciate that.”
“Well, we’re glad you’re here.” Goody drops my hand. “Today should be relatively straightforward. As the executor of your father’s will, I’ll walk you through his estate and the distribution of his assets, along with his wishes for—”
Goody looks up at the jingle of the bell behind me. The creases at the edges of her eyes deepen. “Hello, Cash! Always a pleasure seeing you.”
Cash. Why is that name familiar?
“Ma’am. Good afternoon.”
Something about the deep voice—its scraped-bare sound, maybe, or the thick-as-molasses accent—has me glancing over my shoulder.
My heart takes a tumble at the very handsome man standing just inside the door. He looks to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. Tall—six-three, I’d guess—with the kind of build you see on quarterbacks: broad shoulders, thick arms, long legs with thighs that strain against his fitted jeans. Wranglers, if I had to guess.
He’s holding a cowboy hat to his chest, like he just swept it off his mass of messy brown hair that curls out at the ends. Veins crisscross the back of his hand. He’s sporting a scruffy beard that’s longer along his top lip—I don’t normally find mustaches attractive, but somehow, it’s downright hot on this guy—and a white-and-blue striped button-up that complements his cobalt eyes.
Eyes that are so blue, in fact, they seem to glow against his deeply tanned face.
Those eyes lock on mine. My pulse blares inside my ears. One beat. Two.
The intensity of the extended eye contact, the ballsiness of it, makes my stomach drop. His gaze flickers. Why do I get the feeling he’s annoyed? Angry even?
The memory hits me: a pair of gangly blue-eyed boys in the bed of a pickup truck. One of them was punching another in the head, the blows increasing in frequency until a voice shouted at them from the cab to quit it.