Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
At lunch I get a text.
Kristen: Bridal party is a lively crew. Trina says she’d rather rebuild an engine at the shop with you than talk about 3D bows on nails again. You?
I write back: Camaro tried to best me. Found the wire shorting out. I win.
She sends a wrench emoji and a heart. I don’t ask how to interpret it. I put my phone face-down and go back to work with a stupid calm I can’t blame on coffee, sleep, or the peace I find in fixing a car.
By four, I’ve got the camera boxed and in my saddlebag. I swing by the spa and climb a ladder while Kristen stands below with her palm on my calf like a spotter. I want to laugh because at five feet one inch maybe two in shoes, she’s not catching my six feet four inch frame. But it’s cute she cares.
We run the wire, check the angle on her phone, watch the door paint into the tiny screen. “There,” I say. She marks a check in the notebook with a flourish like she’s signing a declaration.
On the porch that night we eat a simple pork chop dinner. We talk about nothing for an hour and everything for five minutes and then nothing again. It feels like a tune I want to hear on repeat.
When we go to bed, she doesn’t hesitate. She climbs into my space like she owns it because truth be told she owns me. I reach out, hook my arm across her and feel the room click into its best version of itself as she falls into place.
“Mind, body, soul,” she says into the dark, like she’s checking the inventory. “That was the line.”
“Still is,” I answer.
“You got it,” she whispers. “We’re good.”
She’s asleep in minutes. I stay awake a little longer, listening for the noise that used to pace the floorboards of my head. It doesn’t show. If it ever does again, I know what to do with it now: put it on a bike, ride it out until the only thing left is wind and a woman who pressed closer when I told her she should go.
It’s not complicated. It’s commitment the way I understand it.
I’ll be where I said I’d be.
I’ll tell you the truth.
I’ll show you the rest.
The map on the wall is still the same map. I’m just not looking at it alone anymore.
I close my eyes with her weight right where it belongs, and for the second time in as many nights, I fall asleep before the AC finishes its next breath.
Fourteen
Kristen
The first time I catch my reflection that morning, it’s too late.
I’m at the front desk of the spa, computer already humming, when I lean forward to answer the phone and catch a glimpse of my neck in the shiny black screen. The mark is dark, high, blooming just under the angle of my jaw.
Oh. My. God.
Heat rushes up my face. I tilt my head, tug at my collar, but it’s useless — it’s there, loud and obvious. And I didn’t even notice when I left the house. I know I asked for it. We talked about it. I don’t know how I forgot about it as I readied for the day. But then again, hot man kissing me senseless had me distracted.
“Knew it,” a voice sings from the hallway.
I snap my head up. It’s Lana. Of course it’s Tessa. She saunters out of one of the treatment rooms with a smirk, auburn bun wobbling, red nails tapping the doorframe.
“Knew what?” I ask, voice higher than I’d like.
She gestures at her own neck with a flourish. “That Kellum finally broke his saint act. He leave you that little love bite?”
My stomach does a weird flip. I want to deny it. I want to say something clever. Instead, I sputter.
“Not your business.”
Her smirk widens. “Sure, Kristen. Sure.” She breezes past me toward the staff lounge. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though. He’s addictive. Best you’ll ever have. Just don’t be a fool and expect him to keep you. He never keeps anyone.”
The words sting, sharper than I want to admit. She disappears around the corner, leaving me clutching my collar and burning red.
I want to be angry. I want to tell myself she’s just bitter, that she’s trying to get in my head. But part of me still feels small — like I’ve been caught playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Before I can spiral, the doorbell chimes. I look up to see a delivery guy carrying a huge glass vase, stems of roses spilling over the top.
“Delivery for Kristen,” he says, reading off a slip.
My heart stutters because the flowers are stunning. “For me?”
He sets them on the desk. “All yours.”
I thank him, fumbling, and as soon as he leaves I tug the little white card out of the arrangement.