Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
But then I think about Olive laughing with her friends. Drawing pictures in art class. Learning to ride a bike. Having a childhood.
And I know.
I know Westbeach is where she belongs.
Even if it means I can't have him.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting another message from Phoebe or maybe Millie to fill me in on what's going on with her.
Hella's name appears, and my heart stops.
I open the message.
Why is Olive's location showing Eastbeach on Life360?
I stare at the screen. Of course he's tracking her. Monitoring her every move. Fucking control freak.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
She's with Phoebe. Shopping for the wedding. Chill the fuck out.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
See you in three days.
That's it. No explanation. A cold statement of fact or claim.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the grip on my phone tightening.
Peter looks up from the espresso machine. “What?”
“Hella.”
“Ah.” He grins. “Trouble in paradise?”
“There is no paradise. There's no anything.” Which was the point, so why am I making it a problem now?
Karian leans over my shoulder, reading the messages. She whistles low. “Girl, you better find something hot to wear to that wedding. Make his balls ache.”
I turn to her. “I don't want to make his balls ache.”
“Liar.”
Fine, maybe I do.
Because despite everything—despite the coldness, the cruelty, the distance—I want him. Crave him. Dream about his hands and his mouth and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered before it turned into the we were the only thing that mattered.
Three days.
Three days until I see him again.
Three days to prepare for the inevitable trainwreck.
I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on inventory. Trying to forget about Saturday. Trying to convince myself that I don't care what Hella thinks or feels or does so long as he knows where I stand.
By the time I close up the bakery, my nerves are shot. I drive home with the windows down, letting the salt air clear my head. The shack feels empty without Olive's chatter filling the space. I pour myself a glass of wine and settle onto the couch, scrolling through my phone without really seeing anything.
Seven-thirty comes and goes.
My phone stays silent.
Panic flutters in my chest. He always calls. Every single night since we left, he's called. It's the one constant. The one thing I can count on.
Seven forty-five.
Nothing.
Eight o'clock.
Where is he?
At eight-fifteen, my phone rings. I snatch it up so fast I nearly drop it.
Phoebe's name lights up the screen.
“Hey, is everything okay?” My heart pounds in my chest.
“Everything's perfect! We're finishing up dinner. Olive wanted to tell you what she got.”
Relief floods through me. “Put her on.”
Olive's voice comes through, bright and happy. “Mama! Uncle Blake bought me three dresses! And shoes! And a headband with sparkles!”
“Three dresses?” All the panic dissolves.
“He said I needed options.” She giggles. “Can I stay for a sleepover? Please?”
I hesitate. “Did you talk to Hella yet?”
“He texted Uncle Blake. Said it was fine as long as I call him before bed.”
He texted Blake.
Not me.
“Yeah, baby.” I smile. “You can stay.”
“Love you, Mama!”
“Love you too.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, that hollow ache spreading through my chest again.
He didn't call.
He texted Blake instead.
Message received loud and clear.
I finish my wine. Pour another glass. Curl up on the couch and try to lose myself in a thoughtless reality show. But all I can think about is Saturday. About seeing him again. About how he'll look at me—or won't look at me. About whether he's serious about moving on.
About whether I can survive three days of pretending I don't care.
The wine helps. A little.
By the time I stumble into bed, I'm buzzed enough that sleep comes quickly. But my dreams are dark and tangled. Hella's hands around my throat. His mouth on mine. His voice in my ear, low and rough and dangerous.
You're mine.
I wake up gasping, sheets tangled around my legs and my heart pounding.
Three days.
Thirty-Five
Melissa
Mountains stretch endlessly green on both sides of the road as we enter the motorway. Phoebe drives while Olive bounces in the backseat, her blonde hair catching the afternoon sun streaming through the window. She hasn't stopped talking since we left Westbeach three hours ago.
“And then Hella said he'd teach me how to ride a dirt bike when I'm older! Not a motorcycle, because those are too big, but a dirt bike is perfect for kids. He said Uncle Ripper learned when he was six, so maybe I can learn when I'm seven or eight. What do you think, Mama? Can I?”
My gut clenches. “We'll see, baby.”
“And Garret said they have horses! Real horses! Not like the pony rides at festivals. These are big horses that you can actually ride. He said maybe I could learn with him if I stay long enough.”