Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Shit.
“Sorry.” I pick up the apron with apology in my eyes, and Josie goes back to making whatever fancy drink has her spraying a mound of whipped cream on top of cold coffee.
I hesitate for a long moment, a small part of me tempted to ask her if she knows anything about the mystery artist I still have no information on, but I decide I’m too vulnerable for that. I can’t risk other people’s opinions or the possibility that my only current hope balloon might get popped.
I need this hope. And I need to see it all the way through. On my own.
“Josie, I have to go somewhere. I…I can’t stay here and be useless and—”
“Okay,” Josie agrees without a second thought, without even looking up to meet my eyes. Frankly, I’m shocked. I figured she’d ask me questions. Interrogate me about where I needed to go. Something.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” She nods. “Just do me a favor, Hulk, and go easy on the equipment on your way out.”
Dramatically, I hang my apron on the hook by the door to the back kitchen and tiptoe my way around the counter. Josie has the decency to smile, and I’m almost laughing by the time I step out into the drizzle.
It’s a nasty day, one that makes me long for the hot stench of real summer, and I pull the hood of Lil’s Prada hoodie over my head and run for Josie’s old Civic like the water will melt me.
By the time I plop down in the driver’s seat, I’m breathing hard and silently cursing the mystery artist for making me go to so much trouble.
Good. Lord knows I’m going to need a bit of seething anger to bolster my confidence. I need backbone and determination and a “don’t take no for an answer” attitude, none of which are in my wheelhouse.
I crank the engine, which thankfully fires on the first turn of the key, strap on my seat belt, and take off down the road toward the outside of town. I don’t need directions this time; the route is burned into my brain.
When I turn onto Maple Avenue, which happens to be comprised of nothing more than dirt and gravel that’s now slickened by rain, the Civic fishtails so hard I end up spinning and facing the other direction. My heart throbs inside my rib cage, a mix of fear and resolve elevating my adrenaline to an eleven out of ten.
It’s raining harder now, coming in driving sheets that move from right to left instead of straight down, but I’m so far gone with determination, not even that can stop me.
I lift the hood of Lil’s hoodie back over my head and jump out of the car, abandoning it completely. In the distance, the big white house sits up on the hill, and I run the rest of the way to it, past the barn and up the drive until I reach the door.
I don’t wait to catch my breath, and I don’t even consider the fact that I have no idea who’s going to be on the other side. I need answers, and I need them now.
I want this job. Badly.
Scratch that. I need it. I’m not walking away from this with “No” as an answer. I can’t.
Fully soaked and shaking with the chill, I lift my hand to knock on the front door and pound until the light comes on in the hall. I can’t see anything clearly, thanks to the thin white curtains in the sidelight windows, but I know someone’s home.
Mustering every fiber of bravery I have, I knock harder, willing myself to take breaths as pounding footsteps sound on the other side of the deep blue door.
They’re getting closer and harsher, and holy shit, what if it’s an angry, scary man on the other side?
Immediately, I pull my knuckles away, and my throat seizes around a ball of panic.
Gah, Norah. Way to think this through!
My legs twist on themselves as I turn to leave, but it’s too late, I can tell by the sound of the door whipping open behind me.
“What in the hell is going—Norah?”
For as scary a scenario as I pictured of a stranger with a gun or a knife or a will to kill, the voice I hear behind me is infinitely more terrifying.
Oh my God. Don’t tell me that voice belongs to who I think it belongs to.
Slowly, I turn around, trying to catch my breath as I do, but it doesn’t get any better when I see his grumpy, gorgeous face. Bennett stands there, staring at me with bewilderment in his eyes and irritation on his lips.
“Hi, Bennett,” I say with forced dignity—like I’m not at all surprised to find him here. Like I’m not utterly floored that he’s the mystery artist. “Sorry to bother you at home.” I steady myself, refusing to shake my head at my stupid apology. “But I was wondering if you could find a minute to tell me whether I got the job or not.”