Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
And then tragedy strikes again.
Julia’s only hope lies in the last place she wants to look—in Crew Gentry. Her husband’s brother is broody. Irresponsible. He’s broken her heart more than once and let her down every time she’s needed him.
Until now.
Crew steps up, spotting an opportunity to atone for his sins. He’s determined to fix the disaster wrecking their lives. But the only way to make things right might require him to put more than his heart on the line.
He might have to sacrifice it all.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
ONE
CREW
The slush crunches beneath my boots, my breath billowing away from my body.
I bow my head deeper, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt out from under my jacket to cover more of my face. I toggle the paper sack in my other arm, hoping nothing spills out on the wet asphalt. Remnants of the last snow are piled beneath the trees and mound in the shadows of the large apartment complexes looming above.
The neighborhood is alive despite the bitter cold. People sit on the porches of their apartments and duplexes, some toking shit that sure as fuck isn’t tobacco. Smoke rolls from the chimneys of the few single-family houses in the area. Most of them are dilapidated, nearly rotting to the ground.
I grit my teeth.
I hate that they live here.
The apartment comes into view. A wooden chair is placed at the right of the door, a faded red and yellow striped pillow sitting on it. The steps of the porch are piss poor and I have to sidestep the second one. The right side has a gash splitting the wood and I’m pretty certain if I stepped on it, I would fall through. I grimace and make a note to call her landlord. Piece of shit might not give two fucks about this place now, but he will.
I’ll make sure of it.
I bang against the door with my knuckle. It is a cold fucking day, even for Boston at the end of February. It made for a long day unloading cargo at the shipyard. The afternoon warmed a little, but now that the sun is going down, the chill is biting through my Carhartt jacket. I bring my hands to my mouth and rub them together, blowing on them to warm them up.
I knock again, getting impatient. I hear music playing on the other side of the wood, the John Mayer stuff she’s always loved.
A loud commotion, something like a piece of wood smashing something followed by a scream, comes from the apartment next door. Cold and irritated, I turn the handle to give it a flick, thinking the jingle will make her give in and open it. My jaw tenses when it begins to swing free. A chip of paint from the door falls to the tile below.
What the hell is she thinking?
I walk in, brush the hood off my head, and scan the kitchen. The music is playing from her phone on the counter and a pot of something bubbles on the old gas stove. I notice that she’s got a sink full of dishes, which isn’t like her. She’s normally so fussy bout tidiness, taking care of everything she can control. It can be annoying as hell, but I figure it’s some kind of reaction to all the shit she’s not able to control in her life.
I plop the bag down on the table, rattling the basket of apples that are on it. When she comes around the corner, her brown eyes go wide as she grabs at the doorframe, obviously not expecting me.
“Damn it, Crew,” Julia says, clutching her chest with one hand. Her shoulders relax and a small sigh escapes her lips. I’m cautiously optimistic that maybe she’s relieved to see me, but it’s short-lived.
She throws her shoulders back and narrows her eyes. I don’t know exactly what effect it was supposed to have on me, but it’s a good thing I don’t really care.
“Lock your fucking door,” I growl, returning her glare. “You’re lucky it’s me and not some asshole from one of the apartments across the street.”
“Lucky it’s you.” Sarcasm is thick in her voice as she shakes her head, her long black locks swinging side to side. She walks toward the counter and shuts off the music.
I crack the paper bag with the back of my hand, making her flinch. “I brought you some stuff.”
“Stop bringing me stuff.”
She keeps her back to me, picking up a lid and slamming it on a pot.
I know she’s not happy to see me because she never is.
Tough shit.
“Where’s the monkey?” I ask.
“In the living room.”
Her words come out flat, but I’m used to it. I don’t expect anything more from her.