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)
I want to ask her about her current phase and why she needs a muse.
Callie emerges from the pantry with two cups of tea. “Follow me,” she says. “When I’m not in my bedroom, I enjoy time in either my morning room or the covered balcony.” She nods for me to sit at a glass-top café table by the window. “Of course, it’s lovelier in the morning with the sun.” She sets our teacups on the table and sits across from me.
“Thank you.” I bob the tea bag a few times.
“You look so familiar,” she says. “I thought it the day I saw you in the gallery and again when we met for the bike tour.”
“Oh?” I glance up at her. “How so?”
Her pale blue eyes narrow. “I’m not sure. Menopause has scrambled my thoughts. I feel like I have holes in my memory, broken connections, and a two-second recall. Have you lived in this area your whole life?”
“He’s asleep,” Flynn says, sauntering into the room with the kitten. “Dozing off in his desk chair. He had his word with me about the cat, and while I was trying to explain the movie and why I suggested a kitten, he just … dozed off.” Flynn strokes the kitten’s head while meandering around the room, looking at the art on the walls and a few family photos on a coffee table beside a gold, crushed velvet sofa.
“Did you make sure he’s still alive?” Callie asks.
Flynn whips his head in her direction. “Should I?”
She chuckles, pulling her tea bag from the cup and setting it on a ceramic leaf-shaped plate between us. “No. If it’s his time, it’s his time.”
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Flynn says, sitting on the sofa and kissing the kitten’s head.
Finding a guy who likes cats wasn’t on my list, but here we are, and I’m not mad about it.
“Sorry,” I say. “What did you ask me?”
“Have you lived in Minnesota your whole life?” Callie asks.
“I’m from India. My parents adopted me when I was three. I grew up in California.”
“What an interesting coincidence. Did Flynn tell you he was three when he went into foster care?” She eyes Flynn.
I shake my head, glancing at him over my shoulder.
He doesn’t look at us, focusing on Loki.
“What brought you to Minnesota?” She returns her attention to me.
“It’s not California.”
Callie laughs. “Very true. How long have you been here? Clearly long enough to learn the history of this area well enough to be a bike tour guide.”
“I’ve been here three years. When I first moved here, I worked as a barista, and I still do that in the winter. I have a knack for latte art.” My gaze flits to Flynn, and I half expect him to be looking at his phone, but he’s not.
He eyes me with an expression of wonder. I get that giddy feeling again.
“On a whim,” I say, “I took a bike tour, and that’s when I decided it might be the best job ever.”
Callie laughs. “Oh, I love that about you. It’s so genuine and innocent. There’s nothing pretentious about it. Just pure joy for something.” She sighs. “I miss those days.”
Her response evokes so many questions, but I don’t know her well enough to ask them.
“How old are you, if I may ask?” Callie sips her tea.
“Twenty-six.”
“What did you do in California after high school? Did you go to college?”
Flynn laughs softly, and Callie glances at him. “What’s so funny?”
He shrugs. “Well, who goes to college to be a bike tour guide or a barista?”
“A lot of people have degrees they don’t use,” Callie says.
“That’s why I didn’t finish high school,” he says. “I knew I didn’t need a degree.”
I roll my lips together to keep from grinning while Callie studies him. It’s surprising that she doesn’t correct him. College is not the same as high school. But after several seconds, she nods. “Perhaps you’re smarter than my husband gives you credit for, Flynn.”
“Will you tell him that?” he asks.
Callie returns a sincere smile. “I will.”
“Did you go to college?” I ask Callie.
She turns back to me. “Yes.” Her gaze clings to the cup in her hands.
I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. It feels like an invisible line I shouldn’t cross.
“What’s your degree?” Flynn asks, unaware of the invisible line.
Callie’s forehead tightens, and she dismissively waves her hand. “I have several degrees. Nothing important.”
“Sounds like a waste of money,” Flynn says. Then he puckers his lips for a second. “Wealthy people don’t care about wasted money, huh?”
“Well”—she nervously laughs, lifting her teacup to her mouth—“I can’t speak for all wealthy people, but my father and grandfather were frugal with their money. They reinvested almost everything. My grandma used to say they were rich because they lived as though they were poor. When my father died, though, my mother spent her money more freely. She had the mentality that life is too short to save it all for death. But I’m an only child, so yes, college wasn’t a financial burden. And at the time, it didn’t feel like a waste of money.”