Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“That boy works too hard,” Mrs. Fletcher says, following my gaze. “Always here at dawn, leaves after dark. Never takes a day off.”
I make a noncommittal sound, trying not to think about exactly what kind of “work” Damiano was doing last night.
“I’ve left meals prepared in the freezer,” Mrs. Fletcher continues, evidently oblivious to my wandering thoughts. “Just heat them up when you’re hungry. And there’s a list of emergency numbers on the refrigerator.”
“Perfect,” I say, dragging my attention back to her. “I promise not to burn the house down or throw any more wild parties.”
She gives me a stern look, but there’s fondness beneath it. “See that you don’t. Your father would have my head.”
My father again. Always looming over everything.
“I’ll call him right now.” I pull out my phone. “Get it over with.”
Mrs. Fletcher nods approvingly and busies herself with cleaning the kitchen while I step outside onto the terrace, phone in hand. I hesitate for a moment before dialing, watching Damiano work his way methodically across the lawn. When he meets my gaze, even from that distance, I feel it like a physical touch.
My father answers on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Dad.” I lean against the stone balustrade, keeping my eyes on Damiano. “Mrs. Fletcher said you’ve been asking about me.”
“Oh.” There’s a rustling of papers in the background. Always working. “Yes, well. Haven’t heard much from you lately.”
I can hear the distraction in his voice. “I’ve been resting. That was the whole point of sending me here, right?”
He clears his throat. “Of course. I just... worry. Your condition—”
“Is stable,” I cut him off, watching as Damiano turns off the mower and moves toward the edge of the woods. What’s he doing? “The island air agrees with me. I’m feeling better.”
“Good, good.” He sounds distracted, like his mind is already moving on to his next meeting. I can picture him in his Seattle office, one eye on his computer screen. “Keep up with your medication regimen.”
“Always do,” I say dryly.
“Listen—” A pause as he presumably checks his calendar. “About the wedding plans...”
“How is Melissa?” I ask, more to be polite than out of any real interest in my father’s fiancée.
“She’s fine. Busy with preparations.” He clears his throat again. “The date is set for September. I was hoping you might want to be involved. If you’re feeling up to it.”
Involved in my father’s wedding to a woman barely older than me? Hard pass.
“We’ll see how I’m feeling closer to the date,” I hedge. “I’m taking things one day at a time right now.”
Damiano has disappeared into the treeline, a flash of movement catching my eye as he slips between the pines. Curiosity prickles at me.
“Right, of course.” Dad sounds relieved I haven’t committed. “Just... keep me posted on how you’re doing. More than just those two-word texts.”
“Sure,” I promise, distracted by Damiano’s disappearance. “Dad, I should go. Mrs. Fletcher’s calling me for breakfast.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“Yep.” I end the call before he can drag it out any longer.
I slip my phone into my pocket and head back inside, where Mrs. Fletcher is removing muffins from the oven.
“All good?” she asks, setting the hot tin on a cooling rack.
“All good,” I confirm. “Dad says hi.”
She doesn’t look convinced but nods anyway. “I’m going to pack a few things, then call my sister. I’ll leave after lunch if you’re sure you’ll be all right.”
“Positive,” I assure her.
Once she’s gone upstairs, I grab a muffin despite it being too hot to eat, wrap it in a napkin, and head back outside. The lawnmower sits abandoned near the edge of the property, but there’s no sign of Damiano.
I should leave it alone. Should go back inside, be the good little invalid my father and Mrs. Fletcher expect me to be. But curiosity—or something deeper—pulls me toward the trees where I last saw him.
The forest feels different in daylight, less threatening than the night I ran from Liam. Still, I move cautiously, following a narrow trail winding between the pines. The ground is soft under my feet, covered in pine needles that muffle my steps.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Damiano could be anywhere on the sprawling property, but something tells me to keep going, deeper into the woods, away from the manicured gardens and carefully tended lawn.
The trees grow thicker, the light dimmer as the branches overhead create a natural canopy. I’m about to turn back when I hear it—the sound of a shovel striking earth.
My heart jumps into my throat. Instinctively, I duck behind a wide pine tree, peering around it toward the source of the sound.
In a small clearing ahead, Damiano stands in his tank top, his back to me, digging into the forest floor with methodical precision. Sweat darkens the fabric between his shoulder blades as he works. Beside him is a canvas bag, its contents hidden from my view.