Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“You worry too much,” I said, bopping her on the nose as I stood once my other shoe was on. I could tell she was a little tipsy, mostly because she seemed less likely to claw my eyes out.
I swiped my key fob off the kitchen island as I passed it, Mia scrambling up from the floor behind me.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’ll be right back.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I just have something I need to do real quick.”
“There’s a hurricane outside.”
“We have some time before the worst of it hits.”
“So, what? You’re going out for a little stroll in the rain? A drink at the local bar?”
“Worried about me now, darling fiancée?” I asked, swinging my key ring around my finger with a grin.
She scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I remembered another time she was worried about me. When I gave her reason to worry.
That version of myself felt far away now. It had been so long since I’d felt that desperate, that lonely, that… numb.
But I knew he was still inside me. He always would be.
“You could always come with me.”
“To go out in a hurricane? No, thanks. I’m not crazy.”
I chuckled. “Suit yourself.”
I only made it to the door before she let out a little huff of a groan behind me. “Wait! Wait a second, let me put shoes on.”
Five minutes later, we were out the door, Mia with her arms crossed and a massive hoodie on. She had the hood up and sunglasses to boot.
“You really think I’d put you in danger of the media or a fan frenzy right now?”
“Well? You won’t tell me where we’re going, so—”
Her words died when I stopped abruptly a few doors down from my own, knocking on the door of condo 2143. I slid my hands into my pockets, smirking as she blinked at the door first, and then at me, dumbfounded.
The door swung open before she had the chance to ask anything more.
“First a hurricane, the game canceled, and now a scoundrel showing up at my door?” The old man with his liver-spotted hands on the doorknob shook his head, scowling as if he were annoyed. But I knew him well enough to see right through it, especially when he opened the door wider for us to enter. “The good Lord must really be testing me today.”
“Nice to see you in such good spirits, old sport.”
He harrumphed at the nickname I gave him because he quoted The Great Gatsby the first time I met him, then he blinked, thin lips curling into an appreciative smile when Mia took her hood off.
“Well, now,” he mused, a hand at his stomach as he half-bowed. “If you aren’t the prettiest thing this old man has seen in decades.”
“Easy there,” I warned him when he reached out for Mia’s hand. “I don’t need you having a heart attack when the hospitals are all busy preparing for the storm.”
He scowled at me for only a second before his smile was back in place and aimed right at my fake fiancée.
“Mia, this is Otis Schwartz. Otis, Mia Conaway.”
“A true pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mia. Vous êtes charmante.”
“He speaks French now,” I teased, folding my arms over my chest with an arched brow.
“And I speak just enough Swiss German to tell you to bug off, too, if needed.”
He quipped those words without so much as a glance my way, and I chuckled, shaking my head as I made my way farther into his condo. It was a very similar layout to mine, though a bit smaller, and filled with ornate furniture, curious art, and trinkets that evidenced the many travels he’d had in his lifetime. Old books and maps and globes decorated the space, most of the furniture antique wood of some kind, everything warm and a bit musty smelling even in a brand-new condominium building. He was old money rich, the kind where his parents and his parents’ parents never had to worry.
“I’m going to bring your furniture in,” I told him.
“Ah, so that’s why you barged in on this fine afternoon,” he said. The wind whipped angrily outside just as he said it. “How silly of me to think you might be joining me for a glass of brandy and a good conversation.”
“Safety first, booze second. Make mine a scotch, will you?”
Otis waved his weathered hand at me, but his smile was warm as he nodded, mouthing thank you. I nodded in return, a silent gesture to let him know there was no thanks necessary.
Otis was eighty-nine years old, a white man with most of his hair missing, other than little tufts of white lining the lower half of his skull. He had more hair coming out of his ears, if we were being honest. He slumped forward a bit even when standing, working hard to lift his head up to sass me, and he had a cane that he only used half the time he should be.