Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
I’d looked up methods and tried my best to figure it all out, but I’m not a natural green thumb. Even so, when I let myself into the small greenhouse, it’s satisfying to see beds of lettuces and herbs thriving rich and green. There’s squash, red and green peppers, some sort of chili, and what appears to be carrots? I’m not experienced enough to know by sight and don’t want to go yanking things out. More study is clearly needed. The tomatoes, however, hang heavy and ripe with promise. I pick several plump ones and add them to my basket of butter lettuce and herbs. I bring them into the house and make myself a small salad while I wait for my groceries.
After years of dorm rooms then the chaos of Sarah’s place, I relish the silence. It’s not lonely but soothing. Maybe later I’ll want people around me, but for now, I eat my salad and pull out my laptop to start a few assignments.
When the groceries arrive, I put them away, fussing over where everything should go and what the best places would be for my liking.
It’s only then that I feel the sudden urge to be able to look over at someone and squeal in delight, to say, Look at me! I’m making a home.
My phone pings, and a secret rush of hope goes through me. That fragile flame is dashed when I see Sarah’s message.
FrogLvr: Priti is going to move in now. She suggested we create a bathroom schedule. Since you weren’t here, you got last pick.
She adds the schedule in the next message. For fuck’s sake, even Edward has a bath hour. My gaze narrows as I tap out a brisk reply.
Pen: Have at it. I’ll only be coming and going to pack and move my things.
She responds with a thumbs-up. I don’t know why but it feels aggressive. Shoving the phone away, I clean the dishes and go back to studying. My mood isn’t precisely soured but little prickles of irritation remain.
When the phone pings again, I eye it warily. But I’ve never been able to successfully ignore messages. A smile blooms over my face.
Pickle: What you up to?
Pen: Not much. I’m at the house. Cleaned and studied a bit
Pickle: what’s wrong?
A bolt of shock goes through me, and I sit straight, reading the message again. How did he . . . The phone pings with another text.
Pickle: Talk to me
Nibbling my lip, I ponder the question. Where to begin? I’d have to write a whole book in response.
The phone rings, and August’s face—the goofy selfie he took when putting his number into my phone—shines up at me from the screen. He’s got one brow raised high, his mouth curled in a half smile, half smirk. He’d called it his Flynn Rider smolder. Which is eerily accurate. Now, however, it appears as if August is prompting me to answer the phone or else. Oh, how I’ve missed him.
“There’s nothing wrong,” I say by way of greeting.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Yes, there is,” he says patiently. I love his voice. Smooth and rich like whiskey cream, it never fails to flow through my body, leaving me all flushed yet oddly comforted.
He’s not quite so soothing now, however. “Pen, I can tell. You might as well spill it.”
“You can tell there’s something wrong with me from one text?”
A pause thrums through the phone. I can almost picture him frowning, maybe rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when pondering something. “Yes,” he says, sounding quietly surprised by this, but very certain. “Yes, I can.”
With a sigh, I curl my legs up on the chair. “I’ve had a weird morning. Too much to go over on a text, though.”
“Which is why I called.”
Warmth billows soft and fluffy within my chest. He did call. The thoughtfulness of it has me almost weepy. But before I can answer him, August speaks again.
“Why don’t you come over?”
He’s been home for a few days. I’m trying hard not to look too much like an eager puppy, knowing I’ll see him this weekend on game day. Still . . .
“Come over?” I repeat, because, apparently, I’m smooth like that.
“Sure. I’m home now. And you haven’t seen it. Unless you’re still busy?”
“No, I’m not . . . I can come over.”
“Great.” He sends me his address then hangs up with a final, “Get your sweet butt over here, Penelope.”
Well, then.
Sixteen
Pen
He doesn’t live far, and I’m there in less than ten minutes. Punching in the code he gave me—Balderdash!, seriously—I wait as the massive brushed steel gates silently glide back. They reveal a wide drive that curves sharply to the left. As soon as I make the turn, the house looms into view. My immediate impression is of glass and steel garment boxes piled haphazardly and punctuated here and there with enormous wood panels. It’s beautiful in the modern way of glossy airport terminals. It hugs the cliffside as though a giant plunked those boxes into the earth before moving on.