Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
It doesn’t look like a single wrinkle imprinted on Nolan’s mint green polo or black jeans hugging his lean legs down to his black loafers. I, on the other hand, look like I’ve slept in this T-shirt for months. My wiry black hair is pulled back into a ponytail but half of it has escaped, dancing in every direction.
“Hey, Son.”
Nolan nods at his dad, the epitome of the anti-fashion icon with his salt and pepper hair parted down the middle and feathered back. His brown trousers cinch his indulgent waistline about two inches too high, the crotch tight and outlining his wee willy. Poor Mrs. Moore.
I shift my gaze to her after I’ve had an internal snicker over Wee Willy. I stand corrected. She’s worse and better at the same time. Her fiery fringe hangs in her eyes like a sheep dog, the rest of her wavy mane is pulled into a high ponytail—really high—like a sprout on the top of her head.
Her crooked lipstick is too orange.
Her pink shirt is too short, revealing the pale skin of her belly.
Her black trousers look capri-length, but I don’t actually think they are capris.
The socks? I call them the masterpiece of her outfit. Brill. Just brill. She has fabulously paired white socks with rolled-over red lace edging and Birkenstocks.
What universe is this? Nolan’s warning was a gigantic understatement.
However, beneath the layers of her hideous fashion, she’s beautiful—petite facial features and a slender frame with a few curves in the right places. A few freckles speckle her nose and along her high cheekbones. But the eyes … she has the softest, kindest blue eyes I have ever seen.
“Nolie, who’s your friend?”
Nolie. Of course she calls him Nolie. Anything less—anything more normal—would wake me up from this hilarious dream.
“This is Scarlet Stone. She’s my new renter. Scarlet, meet my parents, Harold and Nellie.”
I smile. “Nice to meet you both.”
“You’re Mexican like Sofia, yes?” Nellie asks.
“Filipino.” Harold attempts to correct her, but he’s wrong too.
I’ve never had my accent mistaken for Mexican or Filipino. Clearly, they’re only focused on the color of my skin and my dark hair that’s actually a lot lighter than it used to be since I’ve played with different highlights over the years.
“I’m from England. My dad was born there, and my mum was from the Caribbean.” And they wore normal clothes. I stop short of sharing my mum’s death and my father’s communal underwear.
“Miss Stone.” Sofia hands me a glass of water.
“Thank you.”
Then she hands Nolan his bourbon. He nods and smiles.
“Do you know Princess Diana?”
I narrow my eyes at Nellie. Nolan and Harold tip back their drinks.
“She’s—”
“The Princess, Nel. I’m sure Scarlet doesn’t get invited to Buckingham Palace any more than you get invited to the White House.” Harold clears his throat and stares out at the pasture.
“I hope Charles stops messing around with that Camilla; Diana is such a beautiful girl, and those boys … I bet you dream of marrying William, don’t you?”
Diana’s dead and William’s married. This is pure madness. “Well, who wouldn’t want to be a princess?” I smile.
“They live such extravagant lives. I couldn’t do it. Harry and I only buy secondhand clothes, and we never purchase anything at the grocery store unless it’s on sale or we have a coupon. Right, Harry?”
“Mmm hmm.” Nolan’s dad defines impassiveness, like he automatically hums to the sound of her voice but never really registers a word she says.
Sofia replaces the empty glass in his hand with a full one. He brings it to his lips like each swallow is oxygen to his lungs.
“We can’t stay. I just needed to pick up the contract that was delivered here. Scarlet is still on London time so I’d better get her to the house. I’ll be back later.”
“Drive carefully, Nolie. Last week Grace Kelly’s car somersaulted over a cliff.”
I look at Nolan.
Nothing.
I look at Harold.
Nothing.
What the hell is going on?
CHAPTER FOUR
My name is Scarlet Stone. I am the smallest kid in the playground. I kick bullies in the balls because they never see me coming. My self-defense skills—zero. My hundred-meter sprint time—thirteen seconds.
Not explaining the bizarre conversation that took place with his parents is not allowed. Yet, it happens. He can’t honestly expect me to be satisfied with unconventional marriage and they have a few issues, as an adequate explanation for what I witnessed.
Nolan doesn’t say one word about them during the drive to Tybee. He points out the best places to eat, the oldest buildings, the ghostly history, and the significance of each square—and there are a lot of them—but not once does he offer a single word of elaboration for Harold and Nellie Moore.
He doesn’t know me. I love mystery and trivia. Horror films are my love stories. Risk is my drug of choice. The purpose of being here, in my place of birth, is to let go of everything I thought I knew about myself—about life—and discover something deeper, a greater meaning. However, this new development, aka the Moores, tempts the hell out of me. My head screams, I have to know!