Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
He was a good-looking man.
I'd noticed him on our first day, riding in on that bike of his, wearing a leather cut I knew belonged to the local biker club.
It didn't matter that I didn't ever find myself attracted to criminals; there was something about this man with his strong jaw, bald head, and calm, confident gait.
Let's just say, I had been enduring a famine for a long time, and if my life wasn't a complete clusterfuck—and he wasn't my next-door-neighbor—I wouldn't have minded feasting on that man.
But as things were, I forced my gaze away before I could be caught staring, and helped my mom down the stairs into the main living room.
I loved this house.
To be fair, I loved our too-small apartment as well. In my personal opinion, a home was what you made of it. That said, it was nice that everything here worked, that there were stainless steel appliances in the kitchen—and they all worked—and beautiful hardwood floors throughout the first level as well as plush carpets on the second. I actually became one of those people who said no shoes on the second floor because of those carpets. Or, more accurately, my complete disinterest in shampooing those carpets more than absolutely necessary.
The floor plan was identical to all the other houses. The front door led into a small tiled foyer that had a door leading down to an unfinished basement. It also led out into the open floor plan living and dining space with a gas fireplace and a small deck out back. The kitchen was tucked in the front by the porch, and was all subway tile backsplash and fresh white paint on the cabinets. The countertop wasn't my favorite—an almost pink-tinged Corian that I hoped one day to be able to save up to replace to something more my style. Butcher block, maybe, something warm and inviting.
My old furniture, admittedly, looked out of place in all the shiny, bright, newness of the house. Every weekend, I told myself I would work on some DIY project to get everything spruced up. Sand down the dented and dinged dining room table, re-stain it, redo the cushions on the chairs with something other than fabric straight out of the sixties. There were a million things to be done, and never much time to do it.
And now Jacob was trying his best to make it so I never got any free time.
"I don't know what to do with that boy," I told my mom as I put the kettle on for her oatmeal. She'd become pickier as the dementia got more advanced, eating only a handful of things in a rotation. Breakfasts were apple and cinnamon oatmeal or scrambled eggs with dill mixed in. The doctors told me that so long as she was eating, not to worry too much about the lack of balance. And I snuck in extra healthy stuff whenever I could. A little cauliflower in her rice, a bit of protein powder in her milkshake.
"I mean, what are my options here? Even if I hired someone, which we know I can't afford, he is a big kid. No babysitter is going to be able to control him if he tries to leave. And then there's the fact that he would hate me for even suggesting a babysitter at his age. But I can't exactly let him just go off to hang out with his uncle in the streets all night. We moved here to avoid all that crap."
God, I was exhausted.
The soul kind of tired.
Though, yeah, I hadn't caught more than snatches of sleep in a week. It was like having a newborn all over again. But I was fourteen years older with a lower tolerance for tiredness. And in desperate, desperate need of eight hours and a margarita the size of my head.
Instead, I caught about three and a half hours after eating oatmeal, waking up groggy to guzzle a gallon of coffee, then sat and waited for the bus to drop off my kid who was about to get the lecture of his lifetime.
Except, of course, the bus came and went.
And no Jacob.
Three unanswered texts and ten missed calls later, I checked on my mom, making sure she was safe, then rushed out of the house.
"Everything alright?" a sexy, deep voice called as I nearly fell down the steps in my hurry.
"Oh fine, fine," I called as I righted myself, turning back, waving a hand at him. "Just on my way to murder my son," I added, giving him a tired smile.
"Eva," he called, the sound of my name a little too hot on his lips, making me turn back. "If there's anything I can do—"
"Oh, ah, actually. Just... if you see an older lady trying to leave my house, can you please usher her back inside? Or if you hear a loud noise... could you check in my house? I'm sorry. I know this is asking a lot."