Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I giggle and drop my foot back to the floor.
Chase looks at me. “You girls ready?”
“Yup,” Kennedy says, spraying cookie crumbs across the table.
I nod, even though I’m not.
Sure, our lunch is over, and there’s no reason to take up a table. But sitting here with the two of them, chatting about random stuff and making each other laugh—it’s one of the breeziest, most relaxing Sundays I’ve had in a long damn time.
At least I get to go home with them.
“Let’s go,” I say.
We get to our feet, and Kennedy leads us to the door. Chase walks behind me, pressing his hand into the small of my back.
“Thank you,” he whispers in my ear.
Kennedy skips off to the truck.
I stop as Chase walks around me to hold the door. “For what?”
He doesn’t give me enough room to step outside without running against him. I don’t mind.
“Thanks for trying to talk some sense into her,” he says. “I appreciate it.”
“You know what I appreciate?”
“What’s that?”
The door swings shut behind us, and we head to the truck too. I dip my chin so no one can read my lips.
“I appreciate how freaking sore I am today,” I say softly. “You stretched me out.”
He growls and takes a step to the side, away from me. “Behave.”
I stop in front of his truck. “Or what?”
He watches me with hooded eyes.
“Or you’ll spank me?” I pout. “Oh, what a shame.”
“Get in the fucking truck before I bend you over that bench over there.”
I laugh, wishing I could kiss him but knowing I can’t. Then I climb in the truck, and off we go.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Megan
The house is so quiet without anyone home.
I pitter-patter around the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee I have no business drinking in the afternoon. My sleep is interrupted enough by Chase or thoughts of Chase. I don’t need another element to get in the way of rest.
I grin. Not that I mind the recent disruptions.
My email pings. I sit at the table and pull up the message.
Dear Megan,
I’m circling back to our conversation from the end of last week. I sincerely hope you’ve given my offer consideration. The marketing department knows I’ve contacted you, and they’re just as excited about the prospect of having you back as I am.
Please feel free to ask questions and inquire about any hesitations. I’m here to assure you that Iyala is your home. We believe that, and we believe in you.
Best,
Dorothy Kaziwell
President
I sip my coffee and stare at her words. “If you believed in me, you wouldn’t have let me go.”
Instantly, I feel bad for thinking that way. They didn’t treat me poorly. They made a business decision. But why is the situation so different now? If it was so easy to lose me, how could I be that important to them?
My mind drifts to California and what life would look like if I went back. The people. The noise. Sitting in traffic for hours to go five miles.
But it is money—good money. And with the position comes so many opportunities that most people would kill for.
I try to make myself excited about it. I remember the disappointment of being let go. Even though I was ready to go back to Texas or to do something different wherever that was, it still felt like a loss. They didn’t need me. And if they had changed their mind before I left, I probably would’ve stayed.
But now that I’m not there, now that I’m here, none of that is tempting.
Except I’m not here either. Not for much longer.
“Why does life have to be so damn hard?” I ask as rain begins to pelt the windows again.
I set my mug down and pick up my phone. I scroll through my texts from Chase. All week, he’s habitually sent me selfies throughout the day. In his truck. Next to a power pole. Beside a swiftly flowing creek. I return the gesture with pictures of myself on his bed, doing laundry, and making dinner.
The pictures might get more provocative when he leaves town tomorrow morning for a couple of days. I hope so, anyway.
I stare at the last picture he sent me and zoom in on his face. He’s exhausted and filthy, but a twinkle in his eye makes my heart squeeze. Beneath the picture is a text that he’ll be home late.
Home.
I awaken my computer and re-read Dorothy’s email. I’m here to assure you that Iyala is your home.
Out of all the words in Chase’s message and that email, those stick out.
It’s such a simple word—just four letters. Home. But there aren’t enough letters in the alphabet in the world to capture the meaning of it.
I stand, picking up my coffee and wrapping my hands around the mug.
“Where is my home?” I ask aloud.
I wander around the room as I wander around life, looking for an answer. Looking for a place where I belong.