Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Aye. Maybe if little Jamie MacKenzie had an accident, nobody would have to know how I saved the boy’s life. Much good that did anyway. I’d brought home a shell of a boy. A ghost. A nothing. This time, I’d be doing his poor mam a service.
13
SANTA BARBARA
Jordyn
Days free: 150
Was this all a dream? All on a glorious Friday? One hundred and fifty days—yes, I’d counted. I’d even started a countdown to Christmas like a kid waiting for magic. But this was my real celebration: five months of freedom. Five months of not being forced to do acts that made me hate myself.
And today? I’d greet the sunrise like an old friend.
Jamie’s house sat on the southern curve of the coastline that boasted views of sunrise and sunset, which not many places on the Pacific Ocean offered. I often caught both, the first light of day and the fading thereof, while Jamie and I listened to some of our favorite audiobook characters. That had become our thing over the months.
“Rebel,” I whispered, rousing the Rottweiler who slept at my side. “Don’t you bark, you hear me? Not even a whimper.”
The girl nudged her wet nose into my hand.
Quietly, she and I left the bed, being cautious not to wake Jamie. Muscle memory carried me past his warm, still body asleep on the floor. Poor guy. Thought he had to jog with me every morning. Never once complained, but I could tell he wasn’t thrilled and often worked out again in the gym midday.
Without turning on a single light, I brushed my teeth in the dark and washed my face. I ran a hand over my hair, now in one layer of cornrows. No need to change clothes. No run today. Not on this day. I’d remain in my silk pajamas. Long sleeves. Long pants. I wanted to feel … soft. Like peace finally touched me, even if Jamie wouldn’t. Because today I was free. Truly. Not hunted. Not haunted.
Aleksandr Chelomey must’ve given up on me. Sliding into tennis shoes, I wrapped my matching silk robe tighter, opened the door to our room, and stepped out into the fragile, hushed morning.
Outside, the air kissed my skin, salty and cool. I sat in the sand with Rebel snugged against the side of my thigh. When she looked toward the house, I did too. My home. Gratitude swelled in my chest. I turned back around, allowing the soft sea-salt air to brush over my skin.
I opened my journal. The first page included a few lines filled with shaky handwriting. Over the months, I’d written more, and my penmanship had become more confident. Now, the journal steadied me because it dictated how I’d stopped allowing my past—my pain—to define how I loved someone.
That someone was me.
And if I was being honest …
Jamie too.
Somewhere along the way, I’d forgiven him for not telling his parents. I forgave him without us even having to talk about it. That was a true testament because I know some people have to learn to forgive a person and they were dead and gone, or worse … that person wouldn’t offer the faintest apology, anyway. But I knew Jamie wanted his parents to save me.
Over the months, the alluring woman I assumed I had to be to stay in his good graces, his home, his life, had slowly faded. Then, I noticed that I traded seductive antics for attempting to be useful.
Cooking. Cleaning.
Cleaning the bathroom? Disaster. Jamie had a drill-sergeant voice when explaining toilet bowl etiquette. Since I was never in the military, I came to a compromise: he could shine all the toilets he wanted, and he stayed out of my kitchen. He wasn’t allowed to boil water. I didn’t let him lift a finger. I took care of it all.
I smiled at Rebel, then exhaled as the first orange sliver of sun bled across the ocean. My thoughts turned back to Jamie touching me—his gentle, reverent touches—they weren’t out of obligation. They were intentional. Slow. Meaningful. But it was like pinching yourself to confirm you weren’t dreaming. And that hard pinch came when he didn’t follow through with what my body craved.
“But I know this isn’t a dream …” I whispered. Rebel tilted her head, staring at me curiously.
I fell back into the sand with a groan. “I’m in love with a man who could never love me!”
My body went through the motions of a jerky toddler I’d seen in Wal-Mart while Jamie and I chose Christmas lights. Here I was, staring at the transitioning sky, stomping my feet and thrashing my hands at my sides in perpetual torture. Then I froze. The chill of sand against my back suddenly dropped below zero. Icy. Threatening. My body tensed as Rebel issued a low growl. A shadow passed in my periphery.