Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“You make tea?” I ask, trying not to make it a big deal that I’m standing in his house after the last eight years of hell.
“I have a kettle.” He walks to the kitchen and opens a cupboard, taking out a stainless-steel kettle. He goes over to the big sink and fills it up. “And I have tea bags.” He turns the knob on the stove, and the tick sounds until the flame fills under the kettle, then he walks to what looks like a barn door and slides it open. I see it’s his pantry, which is the size of my bedroom. “I have a box of tea,” he states, looking around the shelves and then finding it before coming out with a big brown wooden box. “Told you.” He puts it on the counter and flips over the lid. “We have a bunch of tea.” His eyes scan them. “There is lemon, ginger, and some fruit.” I can’t help but laugh at his description of them. “There is even sleepy tea.” He picks up the pack between his fingers. “And then English breakfast, which is probably not for night. There is apple cinnamon and chai and—” He looks up. “I don’t even know where they got this from.”
“I’ll have the lemon or ginger one,” I say, and he puts down the sleepy tea one before picking up the lemon one.
“Done.” He closes the box but leaves it on the counter. “Go sit down on the couch, and I’ll join you.” He motions to the couch. “Make yourself at home.”
I walk over to the couch and sit down, putting my hands down beside me and feeling how soft it feels under my hands. I stare at the table in front, seeing pictures of Jennifer all over the room, and I get a tightness in my stomach as I look away from her smiling face. I’m about to get up when he’s in front of me, bending to put a mug on the table, the string from the tea bag hanging over the rim. “There you go.”
“I think I should—” I start to say, and he squats down in front of me. “Go.”
“I think you should drink your tea and relax.” He walks over to the side of the couch and grabs a big thick knitted blanket. Tossing it down beside me, he squats down again and pulls off one shoe and then the next one. He sits beside me, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me to him, reaching out and pulling the cover over me. “Relax,” he says softly, and his smell fills my nose, making me close my eyes and push away all the nerves coursing through me. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, his hand rubbing up and down my arm.
“I’m worried about what happened with the Cartwrights,” I admit and push away from him. “Charlie, what you did was”—I put a hand on my forehead—“dumb and irresponsible. You know what they did to my family and our business, not to mention what they held over Brock’s head.”
I’m expecting him to say something, but instead, he moves to the side, grabs his phone out of his pocket, and presses something, then ringing comes out of it. “Hey,” the man answers, “I don’t hear from you for months and then I get two phone calls in less than two days.”
“Hey, Pops,” he says to his grandfather, Casey Barnes, and my eyes almost come out of my sockets. “Something happened,” he says, looking at me, “thought you should know.”
“Is that so?” he replies, and I shake my head, telling him not to.
“Was out to dinner tonight, and I ran into the Cartwrights.” He ignores my headshaking. “Words were exchanged, along with a little bit of a threat.”
“How little is this threat?” He’s not even fazed by the meaning of this. I’m pretty sure if someone called me and said they made a threat, my voice would be skyrocketed to the sky. I wouldn’t be acting like he just told me that it’s going to be a sunny day.
“Something along the line, if he wants to fuck with anyone, he should pick on someone his own size.” He smirks, looking into my eyes.
I’m expecting his grandfather to freak out, but instead, he just laughs. “Why are you calling me?”
“Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case of blowback.”
This time, Casey laughs even louder and harder. “I’ll try to be ready. Call me tomorrow.”
“Gotcha,” Charlie says, “later.” He presses the disconnect button and throws the phone on the other side of the couch. “Happy?”
“No,” I gasp out. “Why would that make me happy?” I ask. He gets up off the couch, walking over to the lights and turning them all off. The room is lit with a soft light coming from the other side of the room through a doorway. “Charlie,” I say his name softly as he comes back.