Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
She had me there, and she knew it.
Dylan soldiered on. “I would also appreciate it if you could build her toddler bed. It’s in a box in the guest room. And you’ll need to do my groceries. I canceled Row’s auto-deliveries, because they’re full of ingredients I don’t use. I’ve been so caught up with job hunting I don’t even have milk.”
This Bruce Marshall plan had better work, or I was basically paying $10K a week to be Dylan’s servant.
“Whatever,” I said. “What’s the job?”
If Dylan felt self-conscious about talking to me while stark naked under those damn persistent bubbles, she didn’t let on. “A marketing intern position at Beaufort. I’m not sure it’s enough to keep us afloat once our arrangement expires, but I have to start somewhere.” She turned her head back to the sky.
I didn’t want to sound like a bigger asshole than I already was, but I couldn’t think of one damn reason why a twenty-six-year-old woman who’d poured diner coffee her whole life would be called in for an interview at one of the world’s largest fashion brands, second only to Chanel.
It wasn’t that Dylan wasn’t great—it was just that you couldn’t see all those things through her résumé.
“I’ll be there,” I confirmed. “Is there anything in the sky I should know about? A UFO? A crashing plane? The apocalypse?”
Please say the apocalypse. That way, I won’t have to babysit tomorrow.
Her reply came somber and off guard. “You know…ever since I gave birth, I’ve stopped dreaming,” she croaked out, her eyes still stuck on the sky. “I spend my days either working or with Gravity. And I love her. I truly do. But being a single mother is the loneliest existence one can have. Between taking care of her, meeting her needs, working, tidying up, making food, and doing the dishes, I barely have time to think. It’s so exhausting that by the time my head hits the pillow, I’m too tired to dream. And I miss my dreams. So every night, before I go to bed, I always look at the stars and dream in my head while I’m wide awake.”
Well, fuck. Now I felt bad.
“What do you dream about?” I murmured around the figurative foot I’d shoved into my mouth.
She parked her chin on her curled fists. “Lazy weekends on the beach. Traveling. Dancing with friends. Going back to school.”
I couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t mentioned a relationship.
I nodded. “Wild dreams, huh?”
“The wildest.”
Silence stretched between us. She was still looking at the stars when she asked, “Is that all? The water’s getting cold.”
“Yup. See you tomorrow, Cosmos.” I saw my way out.
She didn’t respond to her new nickname. The one I made up on the spot.
She wanted her dream to last a little longer before she went to sleep.
RHYLAND
Whoever said kids didn’t come with a manual had obviously never met Dylan Casablancas.
The woman had printed out a sixty-five-page manifesto annotating food allergies, preapproved activities, a schedule, a menu, and some kind of sorting system for her playdough. She then spent twenty minutes running through the manual with me to ensure I understood everything. Then she left me in a cloud of her perfume and anxiety, standing next to her almost four-year-old.
The child and I stared at each other reluctantly. She seemed just as unhappy as I was with the arrangement.
“So…do you wanna watch South Park or something while I build your bed?” I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Mommy says no TV,” she murmured, her big, dark blue eyes clinging to my face.
Riiight. Page fourteen, section B of the manual. How could I forget?
I grabbed said manual from the dining table and flipped through it, the child still openly gaping at me. There was a list of child-friendly activities Dylan had put together.
She was a mess, but I had to give it to her: she was an involved, loving, deeply caring parent.
“Uh, let’s see. Do you want to do some coloring?”
“No.”
“Puzzles?”
“Nope.”
“Arts and crafts? Letter tracing? Dress-up? Foil presents? Bake some cookies?”
“No, no, no, and no.” She shook her head violently.
I tossed the manual back on the table, exasperated. “Then what do you want to do?”
She pointed to the hallway.
“Get out of my sight?” I asked hopefully.
“Help build bed,” she huffed, folding her arms.
“You can’t,” I said. “It’s dangerous.”
“Don’t care.” She blew a raspberry at me. Her mother’s daughter, no doubt.
“Yeah, me either, actually, but social norms, et cetera.”
I didn’t want this kid to end up in the hospital. Mainly because I didn’t want to end up in one, and Dylan would murder me and then resurrect me just to kill me again in a different, more brutal way if we did. My eyes strayed from the kid to the dining table, where there were a bunch of crayons, and I had an idea.