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)
“Big things are going to happen,” she says, taking my hand suddenly and squeezing it. I’d nearly forgotten that was our thing, and I return her squeeze and echo the words, “Big things are going to happen.”
It’s been the motto of our professional lives.
Maybe, before another scandal happens, we should be more specific about what “big things” we’d like to happen.
“I forgot to ask,” says Lexi suddenly, her eyes turning to me. “Is it true? Did you … sell your house in LA?”
Instead of an answer, I just hug her. We’ve always had that kind of friendship that doesn’t need words. She hugs me back tighter, and there we stand for a good length of time, our island of peace by the window overlooking some downtown street while the after party roars and laughs and chatters around us.
My goodbye is cordial, but inside, I’m feeling a deeper pull to leave rather than linger.
My urgency is less about what I’m leaving.
More about where I’m headed.
And to whom.
It’s like déjà vu when I’m behind the wheel again and blazing down the highway from the airport to the Gulf of Mexico in a rental with no sweltering jacket or hood—just my shades with my hair out and flapping in the wind.
And Anya on speaker: “Last I heard, the pimple on all our asses Trent Embers gave up seeking representation for his pitiful defamation suits. Lawyers aren’t idiots. No one wants to touch that radioactive mothball.”
And she goes on: “Oh, did you hear about all the other women who came forward after Lexi? This Trent guy, he’s a cockroach, Riv, a fucking cockroach crawling up the legs of so many women. That fuck-nut is gonna get buried.”
And on: “Apparently he was the guest speaker on some lame hole-in-the-wall ‘cancel culture’ podcast. Even all the cancel culture critics were shouting to cancel him.”
And: “A close source says he’s burning through all his money. I might feel bad if he wasn’t a fucking shit stain.”
Anya believes not all villains deserve redemption arcs.
In the case of Trent Embers, I’m inclined to agree.
“So you’re really trading the Holly for Dream, huh?”
She’s been ranting about Trent for so long, I barely notice the shift in topic. “Trading what for what?”
“Holly-wood. Dream-wood. Seriously, you gotta pick it up when I put it down, Riv, I’m so much cleverer than you ever give me credit for.”
“It’s a cute play on words, I’ll give you that.”
“People underestimated Cissy, too, but look what she did with so little. Solved a whole murder and got the girl in the end, too—Wait. Did you watch it yet? Did you—Riv!” I guess she can sense my guilty wince. “It’s been months! Months! How have you not watched the dang show yet?!”
Finally, the long-awaited exit looms ahead. I catch my mouth twisting into a giddy smile. “Maybe I was missing the right show-bingeing companion.”
Anya’s sigh whistles through the phone. “Oh, Riv … you are so hopelessly smitten by that boy toy.”
That is a fact I will never deny.
Wholeheartedly. Unequivocally. Definitively smitten.
The first thing I do when I arrive in Dreamwood Isle is swing by this cute flower shop I noticed across the street from the Quicksilver Strand. It smells like salt and jasmine, and the (literally green-haired) cute young guy behind the counter doesn’t blink twice when I ask for the biggest and brightest bouquet he has. “Celebrating something special, Mr. Wolfe?” he asks with a playful smirk. Everyone on the island knows me now. I’m so not a big deal here anymore, and I fucking love it that way. “Yep,” I reply, whipping off my shades and tucking them into a pocket. “Homecoming.”
With the bouquet riding shotgun, I cut across the isle to the bungalow, nestled on the northernmost, coziest street. The pics Finn sent me of the beautiful bushes and flowers now bordering the bungalow on all sides don’t compare to seeing them with my own eyes. It looks ten times more like home than it already seemed before. I swear, this crooked, old bungalow with the undeniable charm has grown on me in ways I couldn’t have dreamt of months ago.
What once was just an affordable, haunted hideout is now (literally) blooming into what I can call home.
I barely make it to the first step of the porch when the door flies open—and there Finn appears, as if he’s held his breath all this time and the sight of me grants him his first relief. I swear, the expression when he sees me—and the likely over-the-top display of flowers in my arms—is worth every mile (and every word I endured from Anya’s well-intended gossiping) from the set to the front steps of this creaky porch.
“You’re early,” he says, startled into a laugh.
“Wrapped a week ahead of schedule. You’re looking at a free man.” I come up the stairs and offer him the flowers. “Can I say what a gift it is to see your face again—and not through a phone screen?”