Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“I look forward to it.”
When we hang up, the weight of all this travel drags my eyelids south, eliciting a yawn and exhaustion I can’t shake. I head for the caffeine stand for a coffee and snack run, hoping to muster enough energy for the journey ahead.
I pull up to the back of the shop downtown just before three in the morning and park near the base of the metal staircase leading to the apartment. The rain hasn’t lessened, and lightning has given me a show in the distance. Thunder rattled the rental car a handful of times, causing me to slow down and drive with my hazards on a few occasions. Now, looking up at the apartment that I didn’t know existed, I spy a turquoise door through the pounding rain and windshield wipers. I eye the potted plant protectively tucked under the roof overhang next to the door, marking my target.
But I wait a minute, taking in the back of the small strip building. It’s the back, but it needs some attention. For tourists during the Peach Festival, there’s charm in a small town when buildings look aged. This isn’t chosen charm. It’s looking run-down, except for the apartment. That turquoise door shone like a beacon.
I grab my carry-on from the back seat and dart from the car, locking it as I dash up the stairs. The overhang covers the pot but not me, so I quickly tilt the pot to the side, spot the silver metal key, and snatch it up.
I’m grateful at the moment, but it’s fucking ridiculous she’s left the place so accessible.
The door opens without a squeal, and I’m hit with the faintest scent of something good, like muffins that just came out of the oven or waking up on Sundays to the smell of pancakes and bacon. My stomach growls as I close the door and lock up behind me.
Despite knowing Lauralee most of her life, I don’t know her well. She sure was pretty the last time I saw her, grown out of the awkward teenage years she had before I left for college. I once heard my mom mention she won Queen of the Peach Festival, as if that would matter to me for some reason.
Being here has me thinking about Lauralee Knot for the first time in years, probably since my best friend married my little sister. I have plenty of women to occupy my thoughts in New York and even more to bury my past in what’s beneath me on any chosen night of the week. No expectations. No obligations. I have the freedom to do as I please at any time, which is more often than I should be proud to admit.
I open my case on the living room floor and grab my toiletry bag before finding the bathroom tucked inside the bedroom and to the left. I close the door but laugh, wondering why. Habit? Although I’m alone, I guess it’s because I’m in unfamiliar territory.
I want to shower after I brush my teeth and strip off my clothes, but I’m too tired to go through the rigmarole of it. I decide that sleep is a better use of my time.
The room is too dark to find my way, so I use my phone to guide me, then I set it on the nightstand. Fucking exhausted. I drop onto the soft mattress, knowing I’ll pass out in point two seconds after hitting the bed.
A loud clunk and someone gasping has me sitting upright. “Hello?”
There’s no response, but the whoosh of air next to my head leads to something squishy knocking me sideways. “What the hell?” A feather from the pillow clings to the tip of my nose. I groan before the heel of a foot slams against my chest, sending me off the bed. My head meets the corner of the nightstand just as my ass lands on the rug. “Fuck!”
Bed springs creaking under pressure forewarns me of the impending shadow of a body ready to land wrestling-style on top of me. Lightning cracks, and the room brightens for a flash of a second, but it’s enough to catch a glimpse of her staring. “Lauralee!”
Everything stills, and the silence in the room becomes deafening, but it might be the blood rushing in my ears. “Baylor?”
With my arms still up and ready to block her next stunt, the words leave my mouth in a fight against time. “It’s me.”
The sound of her landing on the hardwood floors is met with a rapid succession of footsteps across the room. She flips the light on, and my eyes clamp shut as I turn to the side.
“Oh my God.” She asks, “Baylor, are you okay?”
“Not really,” I reply, pushing up to sit. Touching the side of my head, I grumble, “That’s gonna leave a mark.”