Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
There’s an edge to his teasing that makes me feel like he’s reached into my rib cage and pulled out my heart. Hunter might be a lot of things—a lot of annoying things—but I didn’t realize until just now that he’s mean.
I glance down at the box in my arms and realize this is pointless. I don’t have the energy to go on like this. I can’t even be bothered to tell him that Great-Aunt Mildred is Ed’s aunt, not mine. I’m never going to be my sister. I’m never going to flit through my perfect life, sprinkling perfection wherever I go. No matter how organized or punctual or put together I am, I’ll always just be me. The other Jones sister.
I sigh and turn back to the elevators. I’m done. I don’t have it in me to fight with someone who doesn’t care. At least not tonight.
“Lucy,” Hunter calls.
I can’t even bring myself to respond.
“Lucy,” Hunter calls again as he follows me out of the apartment. “Look, I’m sorry if I overreacted about the door. Let’s just go inside.” He tugs at the Bankers Box. “What the hell is in here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“It does matter.”
My arms are tired from carrying the box, my back is starting to twinge, and I’d give anything to take off my heels. Worst of all, though, is how tired my soul is from constantly trying to prove myself.
“I’m going to head home,” I say. “I give up.”
Hunter tucks the heavy box under his arm like it’s a newspaper and loosely grips my wrist, tugging me back toward his apartment. If I had the energy, I’d chastise him for attempted kidnapping.
“Come in and have a drink at least.” His voice is soft, like he’s concerned about me. He probably thinks my last few threads of mental health have finally snapped. And he might not be wrong.
I don’t fight him because I have no energy left. He leads me back down the corridor and into his apartment.
“Okay, so we can put that there.” His tone has shifted. It’s not as acidic as normal. It’s like he might have realized he’s pushed me too far. “Sit here on the couch, so you can see the TV.”
I frown. I’m not here to Netflix and chill. We have plans to make. But I don’t object when he guides me to my designated spot on the couch. A moment later, he’s pressing a cold glass of lemonade into my hands.
“I thought we could start with the house. Does that sound good?” The tone of his voice is the kind used by people who work with the elderly—patient, but wary.
I shrug and take a sip of lemonade. Maybe the sugar will help my mood. Who am I kidding? Nothing’s going to help my mood.
Hunter takes the seat next to me and points the remote at the screen affixed to the wall. “Everything looks better on a big screen.”
The screen comes to life with images of the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. Rising out of a bed of white hydrangeas, with twin gables, a sprawling wraparound porch, dormers, and a rounded turret, it’s more Kennedy Compound than cozy beach house. But the authentic gray shingles and clean white window frames make it feel . . . friendly.
I glance at Hunter. Is this an elaborate trick? He can’t really have secured this house. There’s no way. Then I remember his caveat about the location. I narrow my eyes in suspicion.
“This is available?” I ask.
“Yeah. I didn’t want to risk losing it, so I already paid the deposit.”
“For this house,” I say, jabbing my finger toward the screen. “Not the guest house to this house, but this house.”
“Yes,” he says. “This is the house.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask. “Because I didn’t see it on the market. I mean, maybe I wasn’t looking in the right price category, because that must cost about a hundred thousand dollars for the weekend. I mean, can we even afford it?”
Hunter shrugs. “I’ve got it figured out.”
“You said it wasn’t on the Cape. So where is it? Maine? Canada?” There’s no way he managed to secure this house on short notice anywhere near Cape Cod. It’s just not possible. There has to be a ginormous catch.
He sighs and pushes his hands through his hair. “Don’t lose it,” he warns.
I brace myself, sending up a small prayer that the house is located somewhere Cape-adjacent.
“I won’t lose it. Where is it?”
“The Vineyard.”
I spring to my feet like someone’s jabbed a red-hot poker up my ass. “This house.” I pause and then go over to the screen and put my finger on the beautiful image on the screen. “This house right here is on Martha’s Vineyard.”
He nods, panicked, his eyes wide, like he’s waiting for me to punch him in the face.