Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
My brows rise. Hmm. Hot tub and wine? That’s something I can get on board with.
It’s tempting. So tempting.
Hot tub and wine sounds like exactly the kind of steam I can handle and might help me get my mind off Hayes—not to mention, it might dull the ache between my thighs.
Me:
Alright. I’ll be home soon enough. Give me 2 hours to freshen up and get my life in order and I’ll be over.
Faith:
Yay! Perfect!
Once I’m finally home, I move on autopilot, letting small chores keep my hands busy while my brain idles.
Suitcase to the hallway where my washer and dryer are, I sort without thinking—jeans, tees, the dress that will forever smell like Arizona and decisions I don’t regret. I toss it all in, along with the swimsuit I wore when we had our steamy kiss in the pool.
The machine hums to life, water rushing.
Back to the dresser. I open the “summer” drawer and dig until my fingers find the Lycra. Pull out the ugly Speedo swimsuit I have shoved in the back and mostly wear for swimming laps at the community center. I hold it to my nose and discover it still smells like chlorine.
Hair up in a knot, I slick on ChapStick. Change out of my airport joggers and sweatshirt and into the swimsuit and a clean pair of joggers and sweatshirt. Ha!
Star Lake is misty and soft as I drive. Faith’s cottage sits right on the curve where the pines lean in to eavesdrop; her porch light glows warm through the drizzle. I skip the front door, cut down the flagstone path on the side of the house, and head straight for the back.
Steam billows over the cedar fence in lazy white ribbons. The lake lies beyond it, pewter and quiet, a single loon stitching a black thread across the surface.
“About time,” Faith calls without turning.
She’s on the deck in a chunky sweater and bare feet, already unscrewing a wine bottle like it personally wronged her. Two glasses wait beside a plate she has arranged by tearing the brownies into chunks and calling it rustic. Strawberries. Almonds.
All the trappings of a girls’ night.
“I brought a bottle too,” I say, lifting my bag.
“Excellent. Get in and let the bubbles fix our lives.”
I kick off my shoes, drop the tote, and peel out of my sweatshirt and joggers. Climb in, relishing how comforting the water is as I settle onto a seat beneath it, Faith sitting across from me, curls puffing in the mist, glass balanced on the ledge. We clink. Sip.
Say nothing for a full minute while the hot water does the first round of friendship therapy.
Faith breaks the silence first, tipping her chin toward the lake like it’s sworn to secrecy. “Okay, I’ll start with my news so you don’t have to jump straight into telling me whatever that glow on your face is.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s called jet lag.”
“Mm-hmm.” She takes a prim little sip, then can’t hold it. “I signed the papers.”
I blink. “For what? Please say ‘cult.’”
“For a studio,” she says, grin blooming. “Downtown. The lease. It’s mine.”
I haven’t mentioned this before, but Faith is an interior designer. She’s taken dozens of lake homes and transformed them into cozy retreats, sophisticated spaces, and rustic retreats. And she’s been working out of a corner of her tiny cottage for years, sketching layouts and mood boards, waiting for the right place to come along.
I sit up straight so fast that water sloshes over the edge of the hot tub. “Stop it, you did not!”
“I did.” She’s beaming, cheeks pink from triumph. “I’ve got a contractor who doesn’t seem like a scammer and a spreadsheet of repairs that makes me want to cry.” She takes a sip from her glass. “But it’s mine.”
The happy hits clean and bright. “Faith, this is huge.”
“It is.” She pops an almond into her mouth. “And also—because the universe enjoys chaos—you know Caleb from the kayak shop?”
Who could forget? He blew into town from Colorado but had a girlfriend at the time. The plaid-wearing do-gooder who said “mountain vibes” every third sentence and made it known they were together.
“Who could forget those forearms.” I nod.
“Well. He asked me out. For an actual dinner that isn’t tacos.”
I slap the water. “Our girl is thriving!”
“Obviously I had to turn him down. He didn’t realize I was seeing someone,” she says, and then her eyes go soft. She nudges the plate toward me. “Your turn.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to move on from your news. That is some good shit!”
Faith rolls her eyes. “Please. I’ve been content with the random text messages and that phone call, but now you’re back in Star Lake and I want the details.”
I take a brownie chunk from the charcuterie board, chew, and stare at the steam until she nudges me beneath the water with her toe. “I don’t know where to start.”