Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“The soup is good, right?” he says, like he’s trying to distract me. I know he doesn’t want to know about the soup.
It’s been warming my hands, but I haven’t been drinking it. I bring it to my lips and take a sip.
It’s so good. Fruity and spicy and exactly what I need right now. It trails down my body, warming me from the inside out. “It’s really good,” I say. “It could even be the best tomato soup in the state of Colorado.”
He grins, and for a second, I forget we’re sheltering for our lives. “Told ya.”
He slides his hand over mine and squeezes. I want to ask him what happens now. When we come out of this bunker, do we go back to how things were before? Do we pretend tonight never happened? That we haven’t seen every inch of each other, heard every cry and moan? Do I pretend he doesn’t make me feel like I’m a woman who knows her own mind, rather than some kind of income-generating add-on, responsible for funding her family?
Byron’s changed everything, and he doesn’t even know it.
Whether the tornado strikes Star Falls or not, my life beyond this bunker will never be the same.
EIGHTEEN
Byron
The cab of the truck is thick with worry. Phone lines are down, so I haven’t been able to speak to anyone at the Club. I don’t know what I’m going to find when I get there. In the end, the tornadoes burned themselves out before they got to Star Falls, but the storm still brought high winds and driving rain. I’m hoping for the best, but given everything that’s on the line, and how tight our deadlines are, I might be facing serious changes to our opening strategy. It would cost me millions.
Rosey’s nibbling her bottom lip. Athena’s missing. As soon as we opened the doors of the shelter, the cat bolted like she’d been freed from jail. I slide my hand onto Rosey’s thigh, wanting to reassure her. “I bet she finds her way back by the time we’re home. There’s not as much damage as there would have been if a tornado struck. She’ll be okay.”
I glance over at Rosey and wonder what happens now. Last night felt so seismic between us, like things have shifted completed. But maybe that’s not how Rosey sees it. All the reasons why neither one of us wanted to get involved in the first place still exist. The storm didn’t take them with it as it passed through Star Falls. Does that mean there’s no way forward, or did last night make all the concerns lighter somehow—like they’re no longer bold and underlined?
I still need to focus on the Colorado Club. I still don’t want the town gossiping about me and the runaway bride.
At the same time, I don’t want to give up Rosey.
Does she feel the same?
I don’t have an answer to any of it, and I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, given the enormity of the issues I might be facing when we arrive up the mountain.
“Cats don’t like the rain,” Rosey says. “Where could she have gone?”
“She’s probably found herself a tree to climb up,” I reassure her. I feel like an idiot for obsessing over what happens next for me and Rosey when that’s the last thing on her mind. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Maybe,” she says.
I’d offer to buy her a new cat if I thought that would help. It’s probably insensitive. I’m just not a cat person.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “You’ve got more important things to worry about.”
“I’ll figure out the extent of the problems at the Club soon enough. And we’ll find Athena. I promise. Anything else… we can work out,” I say obtusely, giving her room to say something about what happened between us last night and what might happen in the future.
She meets my gaze, nods, and gives me a small smile.
We can figure this out, I think, hoping she hears me somehow.
The road is passable so far, but the wind has taken its toll. Trees are down either side of the road.
“What’s that?” Rosey asks, gripping my arm.
Ahead there’s something blocking the road. I slow the truck to a stop. “Looks like an old oil drum.” I could drive around it, but I don’t want another vehicle to come along this road and run into it if they’re not paying attention. I put the car in park and grab my gloves from the door pocket.
I don’t know where the hell the oil drum has come from. I give it a push. It’s heavy—definitely not empty. I slide on my gloves and give it another push. It refuses to roll. I circle the drum, trying to see what’s stopping it. There are a couple of dents in it, but nothing that should stop it rolling. I push it again and it moves a few inches, then stops. It must just be the way whatever’s inside is moving inside the barrel. It’s resistant. Eventually, I get a rhythm going, one hand pushing after another. It creates momentum and I manage to push it off the side of the road.