Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I can see the same excitement in his eyes that I once had as we close in on the border between the known and what magic is hidden in the trees.
“I miss them.” Reaching over, I tug him to my side by the shoulders. “You, too, big man. You know I was there the day you were born in New York City. Your mom and dad were so proud of you. I got to hold you right there and then.”
“My mom is having a baby with Marcel in France.” This is news . . . “Do you think she’ll forget about me?”
“Impossible. She loves you too much. When was the last time you saw her?”
We step into the brushy needle bed covering the ground under the trees. I let him lead—in conversation and to the fort—giving him space to speak freely. He replies, “She came to Austin last month for spring break. I stayed with her at an apartment on the lake.”
“Did you have fun?”
“There was a pool.”
“A pool? Well, that answers my question.” He nods as if it really does say all that needs to be said. “I always wanted a pool.”
He keeps walking, then stops to look back. “I miss you, too,” he says, picking up where we left off earlier in the conversation. I move in, pulling him to me and wrapping my arm around him. He wraps his arms around me and looks up. “Why can’t you live here?”
We start walking again. “My life is in New York, buddy.”
“Your life can be here. We’d have so much fun. I’ll even share my bunk beds. You can pick the one you want, and I’ll take the other, though I prefer the top.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the light from my booklight can’t be seen under the door.”
“You’re sneaking to read books at night?” This kid is better than I ever was.
“Yeah. When I’m on the bottom bed, Dad said he saw the light shining under the door and I shouldn’t be up that late.”
I see a structure made of branches ahead, but don’t say anything because I want him to be the one to show me, but there look to be some good architectural skills on display. “I got your back. You can have the top bunk.”
“Here it is.” He runs around a tree and then stands in what looks like the start of a horse stall. With his arms wide, he smiles with pride and then points up. “I want to build a treehouse up there.” When he looks at me, he asks, “Will you help me?”
“This is impressive, Beckett. Have you drawn up plans?”
“This is homebase but up there will be for members only. It’s all in my head.”
I cross my arms over my chest and look up. “There are some good branches up there. We can test the weight load and put a plan together.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking me. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Grinning, I hold out my palm to him. “You sketch out your ideas and I’m in.”
When he slaps his hand down on mine, we shake on it. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Does that mean you’ll move here like Daddy and me did?”
I see what he did there. Clever kid. But I’m not sure how to answer that other than to reply, “I’m thinking it will take a few visits. Maybe three to get the job done. How’s your schedule this summer?”
He laughs. “Wide open.”
And just like that, this kid got me to commit to hanging around Peachtree Pass more often. That sends thoughts back to last night and how this morning feels a little empty without Lauralee around. That’s a new feeling. Finding an excuse to see her again, I ask, “Hey, want to go into town this afternoon and get some ice cream?”
We start heading out of the woods. “Can I get bubble gum ice cream?”
“You can get two scoops if you want.”
He takes off running with his arms out like an airplane, and yells, “Yes,” into the wind.
I’m a fucker for finding a reason to see her. Guess I’m about to find out if she’s happy to see me again, too.
CHAPTER 7
Lauralee
The timer goes off just as I start frosting a cupcake order for pickup in one hour. I set the piping bag down and grab the oven mitts on the way to the oven. The delicious smell of freshly baked cookies escapes the oven as soon as I open the door. I take a deep breath as I pull the tray out and set it on the counter, never tiring of my job.
I get to bake and create for a living. What more could a girl ask for?
I hear the bell chime over the front entrance. “Be right out,” I call, hoping they can hear me. I’m quick to wipe my hands on my apron before pushing the door that leads to the front counter. Said door whacks my ass, scooting me forward when my feet failed to do the job.