Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Protecting her isn’t something I chose.
It’s something I can’t not do.
I’d burn everything to the fucking ground just to keep her safe.
Kylie
It’s only Tuesday, but it feels like it should be Friday.
Between the flat tire last night, sprinting outside this morning in my underwear, and the fact that Rook Slater has somehow lodged himself firmly in my head, I’m already running on fumes—and my workday has barely started.
Add in four thousand tasks that appeared on my to-do list overnight, and I’m hanging on by a thread.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one suffering. Martin looks like he’s one deduction question away from an orange jumpsuit, and because misery loves company, I appreciate the solidarity.
Sighing heavily, I work through crossed eyes to make sense of a return that stopped making sense an hour ago, and I fight an earnest battle not to look at the clock again.
There’s no point—I know that—because it only makes the spreadsheets feel worse and the time feel longer, but old habits die hard when you’re a glutton for punishment. The last time I reset the metaphorical whiteboard with minutes since last loss of willpower, it was six thirty, and upon stupid inspection now, it’s six thirty-two.
God help me. This day is the equivalent of eternity.
My phone buzzes on a stack of manila folders, and I dive to answer it, eager for any and all respite.
And you thought it might be Rook for some reason too.
Of course, it’s not him—I don’t even think he has my number, and I’m clearly losing my marbles to even think he’d be calling me—but my grandmother instead.
“Hey, Gammy.”
“Pot roast is in the slow cooker. Should be done in about an hour.”
There’s no preamble on her end, and because I’m a walking zombie, my mistake doesn’t click without the full reminder.
“I also made a batch of my biscuits you love so much. What time do you think you’ll be here?”
Shit. I completely forgot about the serious-talk pot roast and the refusal to take no for an answer. I meant to call her during my lunch break today, but I never got a lunch break. Maybe I’d have remembered this morning if Rook hadn’t thrown off my whole morning routine too, but between him and taxes, I barely have two brain cells to rub together.
The thought of driving the forty-five minutes to her house, having dinner, and back again is nearly enough to break me. I can’t imagine how it’d feel in practice.
“Gammy, I’m so, so sorry I didn’t get in touch earlier, but I can’t tonight.” I cringe. “I’m still at work, and there are no signs of leaving thus far.”
Silence consumes the line and bleeds out onto my shoulders, doing one hell of an impression of a twenty-pound set of dumbbells. I feel awful, but feeling awful is better than feeling dead. At least, I think.
“You’ve been working late a lot,” Gammy eventually says. “Maybe a little too much, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, well, it’s tax season.”
“I know when tax season is,” she replies with the well-earned authority of a woman who’s lived through eighty tax seasons. “I also know when my granddaughter sounds worn so thin her priorities have started to jumble.”
I rub my temple, searching for an olive branch I can handle. “I promise I’ll come out this weekend for dinner. How about Saturday night? I’ll make sure my whole schedule is clear just for you. Maybe I’ll even sleep there.”
She pauses for a long moment. “All right, dear. I wish it were sooner, but Saturday will have to do, I guess. Everything else okay?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“And the people around you?” she asks. “How are they?”
My fingers still on the keyboard as my brow furrows in confusion. What is she talking about? Why the hell does she care how anyone else is feeling?
I’m too tired to question it aloud. Instead, I do my best to answer. “They’re fine, I guess. Alyssa is busy with school, and she’s the only one I really—”
“No, no, dear. I meant how are they…with you?”
“Gammy, not going to lie, you’ve been a little heavy on weird questions lately and very cryptic on the need to speak in person. I don’t get it. Did you get intel from the CIA about a sleeper cell in Concordia or something? Are you CIA? Make it make sense, please, and do it slowly, like you’re talking to a child.”
“I just like to know that my girl is safe,” she says with a sigh. “That’s all.”
“Well, you don’t need to be worried,” I reassure. “I’m fine. I promise. My life consists of work, skate, and sleep. And every once in a while, I reward myself with a cube of cheese.” I offer a small laugh. One I hope puts her at ease since The Devil Wears Prada is one of her favorite movies.