Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Hmm. Well, you might not live in a castle, and you might be well spoken, but—”
“Reclusive people can be well spoken,” I say, cutting her off.
“I agree, but normally, doesn’t it follow that they wouldn’t want to be?”
“I suppose. The one thing that follows is that I am rich. Aren’t they all, in those stories?”
“Generally, to afford a castle or a crumbling manor, you’d have to have had the money to buy it at some point,” she says.
I don’t know anything about this woman, but she’s got a wry, dry sense of humor that would manifest itself well in every part of her life. People probably flock to her naturally, not because she’s pretty, but because she practically radiates kindness. It’s the rarest and most beautiful thing in all the world. They’re attracted to her heart and her ability to make herself vulnerable and connect with just about anyone over anything. She’s the kind of person who has the ability to make the world magical with just a single smile.
I’m just guessing here. And I’m probably going too far. That’s what happens when I spend most of my days working out, staring at the lake, watching the birds, losing myself in a book or a good album, cooking alone, and beyond that, generally being quite bored.
“At least your parents don’t throw you grand balls to try and find you a wife. Parties aren’t really my thing,” she says.
I pick up the thread of that. “I’d have to arrive masked if they did, but people like a little mystique.”
“Aren’t rich people notoriously weird?” she mutters.
“Some.”
“If they’re artsy?”
That’s a good word to describe her. “Even if they’re not.”
“Why do you call them prospective wives if you aren’t actually planning on marrying anyone?”
“What makes you think that?” I ask.
“The rather aggressive amounts of paperwork that speak to the contrary,” she states dryly. “And the fact that you’ve alluded to that exact sentiment more than once since I got here. Plus, the also aggressive lawyer dude. He’s a bit much.”
“He’s alright.”
“He considers you a friend. I can tell. I guess it’s kind of admirable to act like an enraged goose on behalf of someone else if that someone else inspires the right kind of loyalty.”
I let out a surprised bark of laughter for the second time, and it bounces off the timber walls. Laughter isn’t something I’ve forgotten how to do. Adam, the bastard, would do anything to keep me from losing myself. Plus, he’s constantly walking around here trying to motivate me and telling me things like, the only time you are ever truly lost is the time you fall down and refuse to get up again. That’s the shit that never fails to get me going. Motivational bullshit. He knows it. It’s like he’s rolled up the damn poster and turned it into a megaphone to blast into my brain. He still constantly goes around telling me that, just because he enjoys me flipping him off so much.
“I’ve heard Stonewell being called many things, but never a goose.”
“Geese are scary. They didn’t earn their cobra chicken nickname for nothing. Do you get a lot of geese here?”
The floors are stone in the kitchen, but they’re hardwood in here, the halls, and the bedrooms. Her shoes scuff across the floor when she takes a step, like she’s not used to walking in platforms that are seven inches high.
Then again, can anyone walk in those things?
“Yes.” They come seasonally, sometimes swimming right up to the house with their brand-new babies. It’s a special joy, watching them grow. “And others.”
The birds out here are a huge comfort. Losing half your face, your career, your life… it can teach you many things. Usually, those lessons involve rage and bitterness, which I’ve cycled through many times, questions like, Why me, and other denials, but there are also moments of light. Little epiphanies. It’s not all doom and gloom, depression, and self-loathing. There are times when I’m absolutely happy and beyond grateful to still be alive.
“I bet. You probably get treated to some amazing shows. Do you have bird feeders? Do you do the binoculars thing? Bird cameras?”
“A little of everything.” I know every bird that lives here year-round and all those that come and go with the seasons. I know their colors, their habits, their songs, and their calls.
“What’s your favorite?” she asks.
“The crows.”
“Really? You’re one of those people.”
“I’m afraid to ask what category I’m being lumped in.”
She laughs. It’s a gorgeous sound, as I knew it would be. It’s like summer strawberries in the sun. Her eyes are bright blue, and they’re so bright and unnatural that she has to be wearing contacts. They stand out against her makeup.
“A crow enthusiast.”
I quirk a brow. “You say it like there’s something wrong with it.”
“No. Sorry. I actually think it’s really cool. Crows are super smart and so unique. I read they can hold a grudge for like ten years, and they’ll bring gifts to the people who like them. I think it takes a special kind of person to appreciate them.”