Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Of course Dad had my doctor send dietary restrictions. Peak Maxwell Waters behavior. CEO of Waters Biotechnology, approaching his daughter’s illness like some business problem he can fix with proper management. He probably has a color-coded spreadsheet tracking my “projected recovery timeline” on the island. Checks it every morning with his coffee like a stock portfolio.
“Thank you.” I move toward the grand staircase, trailing my fingers along the polished banister. “I’d like to rest before dinner.”
“Of course.” Her eyes linger on my face, cataloging the new hollows in my cheeks, the shadows under my eyes that even my expensive concealer can’t hide. “The garden’s looking nice, too. I remember how much you loved it.”
The maze. My grandmother’s pride, my mother’s joy, my childhood playground. “Who tends it now?”
“Damiano Ricci. Remember him? His mom used to cook for the summer parties. Italian family. He’s been taking care of the grounds solely for about five years now. Mostly keeps to himself. Lives out of the old greenhouse. Fixed it up to stay warm.” She pauses. “Bit of an odd duck… unusual… but he sure knows his plants.”
I nod, filing away the information. “I’ll look forward to seeing it tomorrow.”
“He’s usually in the greenhouse around now. Makes all kinds of potions with his herbs.” Her tone suggests disapproval mixed with reluctant respect. “Some folks around here swear by his remedies.”
My interest perks up despite feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. After years as a human guinea pig—endless clinical trials and experimental treatments, each one supposedly “the miracle” that would fix my broken immune system—I’ve developed a thing for alternative stuff. Not because I’m hopeful—gave that up ages ago—but hey, at this point, why not? Maybe it’s the scientist in me. Or maybe Western medicine has just put me through enough hell.
“Huh,” I smile faintly. “Maybe I should pay him a visit.”
“Rest first,” Mrs. Fletcher says firmly. “Plenty of time for that. You’re here all season. No need to push yourself.”
The whole season. Three months of island time. Dad’s recovery prescription: clean air, family property, distance from “stressful Seattle.” More like, keeping me away from his upcoming wedding to Melissa, his executive assistant. She’s three years younger than me with perfect health and—shocker—never disagrees with anything he says. Pretty convenient how I got shipped off right before all the wedding festivities. Can’t have the sick daughter killing the vibe, right?
Upstairs, my childhood bedroom awaits, transformed from the teenager’s retreat I left behind to a sophisticated guest suite. The walls, once covered in band posters and photographic prints, now wear a tasteful sage green. The twin bed has been replaced with a queen, draped in crisp white linens and a pale blue cashmere throw.
My luggage has already been delivered and unpacked because god forbid I do it myself and waste precious energy. My clothes hang in the cedar-scented closet, organized with military precision: casual wear, sleepwear, and those ridiculous formal outfits Dad insisted I bring “for dinner parties.” Right. Like I’m planning to host fancy gatherings during my island exile. Like anyone would show up if I did.
I open the French doors to the small private balcony overlooking the rear gardens. The maze spreads below, a geometric puzzle of precisely trimmed hedges, the pattern more complex than I remember. At the center, barely visible from this angle, stands a stone gazebo where my mother used to read while I explored the green pathways. Beyond the cultivated grounds, the wild forest begins, dense and dark even in daylight.
Something catches my eye among the hedges. A figure in black, moving through the maze like he owns every inch of it. Even from up here, I can tell there’s something different about him.
The way he moves. Confident.
Knowing exactly where he’s going. Tall, lean, but strong. Not gym-bro strong, but the kind that comes from actual work. It’s almost like the fog gets out of his way as he stalks through it.
He stops at a junction, kneels to examine something at the base of a hedge, then stands with a cutting tool glinting in his hand. His hair, dark as wet earth and falling past his shoulders, is pulled back in a loose knot, revealing his profile as he turns slightly. A pronounced jawline frames his face, severe beneath prominent cheekbones that catch what little light filters through the mist. The sleeves of his black shirt are pushed up, revealing forearms covered in intricate tattoos, dark patterns that from this distance look like twisted vines and ancient symbols against his suntanned skin.
He moves again, his hands quick and precise as they trim a branch, then trace along the hedge with a gentleness that seems... I don’t know, almost intimate? Like he’s talking to them without speaking. His whole body moves with this weird awareness of the plants around him, like he instinctively knows what they need.