Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I run my finger along the dresser’s top, which is completely devoid of any sentimental items—no knick-knacks, no clothes out of place, no toiletries. There’s no dust, and the mirror is perfectly spotless, but I go and get my cleaning supplies from the stairs anyway.
I give everything a good wipe-down, including the windows. The shades are a gauzy white fabric, and I send up a plea to the curtain gods to never let them get dirty. I would have no idea how to go about wiping those things down.
After that, I skim past the bed, keeping my brain on track by filling my head with images of me madly cleaning and not snooping around in here. I certainly don’t imagine Warrick sleeping in that huge bed, his massive form making even the biggest bed seem small. I don’t wonder which side he sleeps on. I don’t freaking run my hand over the mattress and check for indents, and I most definitely do not lean over and smell the pillows.
Fuck, of course I do all of that, but at least I have the decency to feel utterly guilty over it.
I don’t need to try and catch his lingering scent. The whole place is enveloped with it. The room screams MAN in shouty caps. It’s basically nightmare fodder. Well, that is if you term having erotic dreams about your ex-boyfriend’s dad the stuff of nightmares.
Okay, calling it a nightmare is too strong.
Inappropriate dream fodder from which you wake up sweaty and aching is more accurate.
I don’t know why Warrick entrusted me with his secrets, but it immediately shot us both to a new planet of intimacy. We rocketed straight past the stratosphere of boss-employee professional distance. We skipped past the friends’ planet, and now we seem to be floating in a nebulous, unexplored galaxy.
I force my attention back to cleaning and head to the en-suite bathroom, where I let out a little sigh of delighted dismay when I realize that, at last, there is actually something to clean in here. Most of my afternoons are long and empty. I’m not going to just go through the motions of cleaning stuff that doesn’t need to be cleaned, which ensures the hours stretch on and on. I’ve never had so much free time in my life, and it’s almost intimidating. I’ve spent my off hours the past week forcing myself to explore the city, even if driving here freaks me out.
On the first day was groceries. I couldn’t just keep eating out of Warrick’s fridge and cooking in his kitchen. I don’t think he’ll mind, honestly, but the pool house has its own kitchen and fridge with working appliances. I may be living here, but cooking in my own area makes me feel more independent.
During the week, I also found several thrift and antique stores, and I chose a few original vintage paintings for my space as well as a funky, knitted, granny-squares Afghan done in glorious pastel hues.
I didn’t want to say anything to Warrick, but when I went back to my apartment after he paid off those thugs, intent on packing my things and giving my notice, I found that the place had been…what do they call it when someone’s been searching in there? Sifted? Tossed? Whatever euphemism people like to put on it, the only proper word that could be used was destroyed.
Most of my things were broken, furniture slashed, TV smashed, laptop in pieces, bedding torn apart, and mattress sliced open. There were holes in the walls, and the fridge door had been torn off. Why? I had no idea, but it ensured I wouldn’t get my damage deposit back.
Because my parents are the world’s best people, they came over and helped me clean up. All my childhood keepsakes were still at their house, packed in boxes in the basement, so they were safe. The saddest thing I lost was my teapot collection. My mom tried to cheer me up by carefully putting all the broken porcelain, glass, and pottery into a bucket. She suggested we learn to do mosaics and make a mirror or get into stepping stones.
I had to lock myself in the bathroom and have a good cry where my parents couldn’t see me, and then mumble something humiliating about constipation issues that resulted in my mother literally buying me a box of chocolate laxatives on the way home.
It ended up that all I brought here with me was a duffel bag of clothes—they were just strewn about the apartment but not wrecked—my new (to me) laptop I went and purchased with the money Warrick paid back to my savings account, and my phone.
I’ve missed my parents like crazy, and each day, when they get off work, we video chat. We usually do it again in the evenings when they go and visit Granny. I know my parents are still worried about me, but Granny thinks the digs are sweet, especially with a pool she’d give her left boob to have in her non-existent backyard. Her words exactly.