Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
“I’ll just take whatever’s free. No worries,” she says once she’s partway up the stairs, looking like she’ll barely make it to the top.
Another section of the railing bends when she lays her hand on it, and I grit my teeth.
“Careful. Tomorrow, I’ll get that hammered back into place and something over the gap,” I tell her. “And I’ll do my own sweep through the house, if you don’t mind. Looks like nobody’s been living here for some time.”
“They haven’t,” she agrees. “PopPop wasn’t exactly coming around the last few years of his life, and we didn’t rent it out until recently. We’ve had a few people checking in and handling maintenance, but I guess they missed a few things. Sorry again for the crappy condition.”
She gives the railing a good shake to test it and glances over her shoulder at me. The entire structure wobbles like a licorice rope.
“Like I said, I’ll deal with it.”
Her shades are back on top of her head, threatening to fall down her nose. “No need. I’ll have someone drop by soon and patch it up.”
“Why bother? That could take days and I’m here.”
“Technically, you’re a tenant, and I’m the landlord. And I’ve already put you guys in danger.” She’s reached the landing now, and she rolls her shoulders as she sets the bag down. What does she have in there, bricks? “That makes it my responsibility. My house, my rules, Dadzilla.”
I snort.
Stubborn as hell and twice as infuriating.
“I mean it,” she calls.
Sure, she does.
Only, by the time she brings some handyman in, even if they’re local, I could’ve had this mess fixed.
Also, I’m pretty sure I saw a toolshed out back. Might not even have to go into town for supplies if there’s any surplus equipment in there.
That also reminds me to quit glowering and check on the kids.
Maybe I’ll stick my head in the old shed, too, assuming it isn’t locked, just to scope it out.
I head outside through the back and cross the large green lawn to the lake, following their excited yelps down the beach. They’re already skipping rocks on the lake.
When I glance up at the house, a curtain swishes over one of the second-floor windows.
Margot’s face disappears from view in a puff of beige, a split second ahead of her hand, making a pointed gesture.
I try not to grin, especially in front of the kids.
Was she seriously flipping me off?
I can’t believe my luck, and just when it seemed like it was turning around.
This is going to be a special kind of torture.
3
HAPPY HOUSEWARMING (MARGOT)
What a freaking day.
I spend the evening holed up in my room, or what counts as my room now.
I haven’t had much time to make it mine yet. Little Sophie took the old room I used to claim when I’d come here as a kid, and the décor in this barely used guest room is way too beige.
With an old family photo on the desk I swiped from downstairs and lights strung around the mirror on the wall, it’s finally a bit brighter.
I make a mental note to buy some furniture ASAP on the off chance I decide to keep this place. Maybe even if I don’t.
A splash of color never hurt anyone.
But PopPop liked his old-world rustic charm. He was onto the organic earthy look before it ever became a modern trend.
Thankfully, there’s a desk in the corner.
I throw myself into the office chair in front of it, one leg tucked under my rear. Gramps’ cryptic letter sits off to one side like a taunting demon.
Or is that my tablet tonight?
It’s perched in front of me, the screen blank. With my stylus in hand, I halfheartedly try to finish up my latest shoe design with a little AI-assisted variation.
None of the two dozen options it spits out feel right.
It’s not vibing.
And I’m not relaxed, my anxiety soaring as my creative spark wimps out.
Before, I hoped I’d get to chill by coming up here.
Nope!
Below, there’s a steady beat, like someone’s doing a drum solo, banging away like their life depends on it.
The little boy, maybe.
Dan.
He looked like the kid musician type. All gangly preteen and fresh-faced mischief in his eyes. Athletic, too, which probably means he’s into drums when his school band made him choose an instrument.
Back when I was in high school band, the rowdy boys into sports always picked the biggest noisemakers. Drums, trumpets, saxophones, you name it.
I’d be surprised if the little girl was into something so obnoxious.
At least the family’s all settled in, I guess.
Even if their dad could use an attitude transplant or three.
Ugh, Kane.
This must be the tenth time I’ve thought of him since I shut myself away.
The expression on his face when he thought I was kidnapping his daughter…
So ridiculous.
Total overreaction.
How is that a reasonable assumption when you see a strange woman helping your kid off the floor?