Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Then he meets June.
June is a bike tour guide with a quick smile, a calm confidence, and a way of making Flynn feel seen without being judged. Their connection is immediate and playful, built on shared humor, quiet moments, and a mutual longing for a simple life.
As Flynn adjusts to his bizarre new job, he starts encountering something he never planned for: kindness without strings attached. It challenges everything he believes about money, power, and who gets to be comfortable in the world. And falling for June only complicates things, especially when it turns out she’s carrying secrets of her own.
When June’s past surfaces, Flynn has to decide what scares him more: becoming someone he’s always sworn he’d never be or letting her see his darkest secrets. If he can’t let go of his fears, he might lose the one person who finally feels like home
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Playlist
“Wi$h Li$t” | Taylor Swift
“Complicated" (Triple J Like a Version) | GRAACE
“Iris” - Live Sessions | Josh Ross
“Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major Prélude” | Johann Sebastian Bach, Yo-Yo Ma
“Serenade” | Franz Schubert, HAUSER, Robert Ziegler, London Symphony Orchestra
“Dangerous Woman” | Power-Haus, Tom Evans, Future Cello
“Nothing Else Matters” - Cello Version | Jodok Cello
“Moon River” | 2CELLOS
“Tired” | Sarah Proctor
“Hellos On The Loose” | Bo Staloch
“Everywhere, Everything” (With Gracie Abrams) | Noah Kahan
Maybe the journey isn’t about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you, so that you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.
—Paulo Coelho
Chapter One
Flynn
“My wife doesn’t like sex, so keep it in your trousers. I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself.”
Dude …
What’s happening?
First: Nothing about my “it” is embarrassing.
Second: What does it say about him if his wife “doesn’t like sex?”
Third: Who calls jeans trousers?
I force a tight smile and nod because, this morning, I took Rupert Rawlings’ cypress green Chevelle convertible for a joyride after giving it the platinum mobile detail service. He said he was golfing. I thought that meant four hours at a golf course, not thirty minutes with a simulator in the basement of his old mansion overlooking a lake just outside of downtown Minneapolis—a hub for outdoor enthusiasts, owners of designer dogs, and anyone who shops at Whole Foods.
I’ve been sitting in this same spot for forty minutes while he’s dicked around on his computer and stepped out of his office, twice, to make calls. At least he’s finally explaining the job he’s offering me in lieu of going to jail for grand theft auto—which it was not.
I inhale the scent of lemon furniture polish and musty old books. “What exactly are you hiring me to do besides keeping it in my trousers?” I ask, sprawled out on the cool, tufted brown leather sofa in Rupert’s office. The value of this single room exceeds that of any place I’ve ever lived. The arched doorway and floor-to-ceiling windows open to a view of the lake beyond the trees. Custom walnut cabinetry and shiny brass fixtures. Must be nice having money to burn on stupid shit.
“Do you know who you remind me of?” he asks, reclining in his cushy desk chair, hands laced behind his full head of black and gray hair.
“Yup, because I read minds.” I tear my gaze away from the wood-paneled ceiling to observe his reaction.
Rupert smirks. “You remind me of myself at your age.”
“Are you implying you were awesome or I’m destined to be a gazillionaire?”
“You’re the mind reader, so you tell me.”
I roll my eyes and sit up, running my hands through my hair. Maybe a ride in a police cruiser is the better option. “If your wife has to get herself off,” I say, “then awesome is off the table. Guess that means I’m gonna be a rich fucker.” I twist my lips. “They say money can’t buy happiness, but everyone I know thinks that’s bullshit. Personally, I hate rich people. They’re so out of touch with reality.”
This rich guy clears his throat, lifting an eyebrow at me.
I shrug. “Prove me wrong. I don’t think money buys happiness. I think it’s a burden. Money makes it too easy to become an entitled asshole.”
“Like me?”
“Dunno yet. I’ll let you know.” I scratch my chin. “But blackmailing me isn’t helping your case.”
He eyes me for a second before gripping the arms of his chair to stand. “I don’t need a case, because I have nothing to prove to anyone. I believe it’s called FU money. And no, it doesn’t buy happiness. Happiness is a fleeting emotion—at best.” The top of his crystal decanter clinks on the marble counter before he pours half a glass. Just one. This guy could work on his hospitality.
“Are you a shrink or something?” I ask. “Sounds like something a shrink would say.”
Rupert chuckles, facing me while leaning his backside against the edge of his desk. He sips the alcohol, dark eyes trained on me. I’m not afraid of much, but this guy could turn a simple joyride into a grand theft auto charge.
What must his life be like? I bet he has a dozen other suits just as fancy and expensive as the one he’s wearing. A person to shine his shoes before they get a single scuff. Maybe he’s a lawyer, and that’s how he knows he could put me in jail. I’d guess he’s in his fifties, but his hands are devoid of calluses. It’s unnatural. Not a speck of dirt under his trimmed nails. Does he get manicures with his wife?
I glance down at my grease-stained hands folded between my spread legs. Thick callouses. Two knuckles larger than the others from jamming them.
Pins and plates hold me together. I have so many scars from stitches that my friends call me Frankenstein’s monster.