Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“Wait, did something happen with him?”
I turn to find Brooke staring at me with the granola bar half hanging out of her mouth, anticipating my answer.
“I … never said that.”
“Finn!” she squeals, pressing up closer to me. Brooke has never understood personal space. “There’s something you’re not telling me! Y’know, I had a feeling he might be gay. Why else would he come to Dreamwood?”
“That doesn’t mean something happened.”
“Don’t make me tickle it out of you …”
“If you touch me, I’m pouring this protein shake over your head.”
“You’d never waste a drop of your protein, so I know that’s a lie. Tell me! Did he hit on you?”
I grip my protein shake tighter.
The truth is, I owe this guy nothing. I’m not even sure I like him.
But he gave me his name. Well, the first part of it.
Why do I feel protective of him suddenly?
“The key broke in the lock.”
Brooke’s face wrinkles up in confusion. “What? How? I just used it this morning!”
“So he broke in through the back to let himself in.”
“That’s crazy!” The thought flies through her mind like lightning. “Wait. That means you have to go back. To fix the lock and give him another key.”
“Someone else. Not me. I’ll get Marcus. Javier. One of them will be free, can do it for a buck.”
“No. It has to be you. Discretion, remember? Marcus and his big mouth.”
“The window on the back door, too. I did say he had to break his way in.”
“So dramatic,” she murmurs in awe, nearly drooling.
“Careless,” I correct her, kicking back my shake.
“You’re doing the work, no one else. And you have to do it tonight. Like, right now.”
I look at her. “Why?”
She gapes at me. “You serious? You’re gonna let bugs come in through that window? Did you even patch it up? Finn!” she cries accusatorily at the blank look on my face. “I would’ve done at least that! You just left it like it was?”
“I said I—”
“You have to go back! Now! Put down that drink and go fix his door—both of them! We have maybe-Hollywood royalty staying in that house and you’re standing here like no big deal chugging protein. Have you looked in a mirror? I think you have enough protein for a lifetime.”
“You’re insufferable,” I moan.
Another voice comes softly from the doorway. “Finn.”
We both freeze and turn.
It’s Dad: a slimmer, taller version of me, armed with a mustache, white robe, and a bucket hat. His attire is always random, especially at the house. He’s the island’s man of fun who upholds our family legacy of the Hopewell Fair and Harbor. But unless we’re at the Fair and he’s giving one of his big speeches, kicking off our weekend fireworks show or being the face of Dreamwood Isle entertainment, he’s just our silly dad who wears a robe and flip-flops around the house.
But his face doesn’t reflect much of that silliness right now. He seems uncharacteristically pensive. Maybe he just overheard everything and I’m about to get chewed out for not going the extra mile, despite the damned marathon of extra miles I’ve travelled for this family. Or he’s in a mood because of Heather, who has a habit of bossing everyone around—including him.
Or maybe he’s just constipated.
His eyes lock on me. “Can I have a word?”
I push away from the counter. “Of course, Dad.”
The tension in his face breaks as he offers my sister a sweet smile. “Brooke, can you check on Arial and Roman? I think they haven’t been fed.”
The cats. Yes, both named after the fonts.
“Sure, Daddy,” says Brooke, then she eyes both of us. “You could’ve just told me to go. I know when I’m being sent out of the room so the boys can talk.” She pops what’s left of her granola bar into her mouth, tosses the wrapper at the trashcan, then sees herself out.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Dad decides, beckoning me with a throw of his head, hands stuffed into his robe pockets. “I’m pretty sure I left my phone charging in the game room.”
I head with him through the main foyer and up the stairs. With my dad and Heather’s rooms being downstairs, no one ever comes up here except for me and Brooke. The end of the hall opens to a wide, long game room with two couches, a TV, mini-pool table, and a drinking bar by the window—which, by coincidence, faces the same direction as the kitchen and therefore also has a view of the distant bungalow. I can’t peel my eyes from it through the window as I wait for my dad to unhook his phone from the charger and thumb quickly past a few unimportant notifications.
“I guess the girls didn’t send you to me this afternoon like I’d asked them to,” says my dad calmly.
“They did say you wanted to talk, but Brooke figured it was just to send me to check on the bungalow, so I went.”