Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
“They can’t be indoor dogs,” Mom says, aghast.
Coffee spins around and takes a few steps.
I assume he’s heading back to my room, so I tuck into my cake again. The sooner I’m done with dinner, the faster I’ll get away from this table and this judgy conversation.
“Jennifer, get that dog!” Mom screams.
I follow her eyes up.
Coffee’s front paws hit the top of the second-story banister as he stands, shoving his weight forward.
Oh, no.
“Coffee, down!” I stand and scream, right before he—
Too late.
His front paws are stretched out like he’s diving as he goes over.
Sweet Jesus. Please don’t break a bone!
A whimpering pup and a four-figure vet bill flash before my eyes.
Until he lands on the couch in front of us with his limbs stretched in all directions.
There’s a breathless second before he bounces up. He barks playfully, bounds off the couch, and comes over to sniff my hand.
Oh, thank God.
“That’s enough, get that mutt out of here!” Dad growls.
Another round of barking comes from above. Not to be outdone, Cream prances down the stairs like the drama queen she is, a lot more gracefully than her brother.
I laugh.
“Not funny,” Mom snaps. “He could have broken a leg.”
“He’s used to poking his head through the spindles at the inn, but he can’t do that with your modern layout. I think it confused him. Guess I didn’t think to dog proof your house,” I explain.
My parents share a look that tells me they aren’t looking for excuses.
So I stand and put my hand under Coffee’s collar. I’ll have to physically lead him away from the table. He’s not easily deterred when he’s hyper.
I look at Dad over my shoulder. “Now do you see why I like Bee Harbor? How could I ever move ‘my favorite inheritance’ to the city?”
Cream stands beside me now.
“Take them on another walk and calm them down,” he counters. “They need to run off that energy.”
“They’ve been out three times today. They just need space to roam and play. It’s what they do,” I say with a shrug.
But I guess a few more laps around the block couldn’t hurt. I move to the key peg where I’ve hung their leashes.
“It rained earlier. Be sure to wipe their feet when you bring them in!” Mom yells after me.
“Wendy, calm down. I’ll take care of it if they muddy the floors,” he says, flashing a sympathetic look.
He’s trying to stay on my good side, hoping I’ll reconsider their plea to give up on having a life and anchor myself to this city.
With a leash in each hand, I bring the dogs out in good order and let them try to acclimate to the Seattle streets again.
It’s getting better—I think.
Today I’ve only had to yank on their leashes a couple times to get them to turn at the corners. They’re still not quite used to our treks through a busy subdivision with kids on scooters.
God willing, we won’t be here long enough for them to adapt.
Being home isn’t easy.
Jogging along at a brisker pace, I realize it’s not because I don’t love my parents.
It’s just that I love not having to answer to anyone. I’m also more at ease in a more open, more chill environment.
Seattle is a vibrant rush, all young energy, which comes with anxiety and adrenaline and uncertainty. Everything here is hustle and bustle, and it’s everything I want to escape.
Bizarrely, I miss the inn like it’s home now.
This homecoming tells me my parents haven’t changed, and that’s the problem.
I have.
And I really don’t belong here anymore, living on borrowed dreams, trying to please everyone over myself.
The insight makes me lighter as we start back. Coffee and Cream seem oddly quiet now, up in their own doggy brains.
About a block from my parents’ place, a sleek black car rolls up beside us and slows to a crawl.
I’m insta-pissed as my eyes flick to the dark windows.
What the hell? Miles Cromwell is going full stalker now?
But the car stops on the curb.
Sigh.
This is going too far. It’s high past time to give this man a lesson in boundaries.
As the door opens, I’m gathering all my firepower, putting the dogs in a heel so I can give the bossman a biting piece of my mind. If he thinks I’m intimidated, he can think—
Oh.
A woman climbs out of the back seat. The very definition of the word statuesque.
She’s so tall I have to look up, lean and angled like a human greyhound. She’s wearing a pinstriped tailored suit with a purple blouse.
I can’t decide if she just stepped off Project Runway or Wall Street.
I bend over and peer into the car, just in case, but I can’t see the jackass. She also doesn’t look like one of his minions.
Then Coffee barks and pulls on his leash, knocking me off-balance. As always, Cream follows her naughty brother, unleashing defensive yips.