Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“No, no,” she says. “You definitely can’t go out now. You should have gotten something on your way there.”
“Yeah, coulda woulda shoulda.”
“Check the pantry,” Sandy suggests. “All these cottages always have one. Maybe you’ll find a tin of something edible there?”
”Right,” I say and follow her advice. Soon I find it and it’s a small cupboard-like hole in the wall. I start digging through, the cans clanking, and pull out a Campbell’s tomato soup. “I found some soup.”
“Check if it expired,” she says. “You have got to be careful about that.”
“Yeah.” I turn the can around and I’m glad to see that it still has a couple of months left on it. “It’s good. It’s not expired. This will do for the night.”
“That’s a relief,” she says. “It’d suck if you had to go to sleep with a hungry belly as well as a throbbing pussy.”
“Can you stop, please?”
She laughs uproariously as I rummage around and find a pot. After cleaning it as thoroughly as I can, I dump the soup in, and work out how to flick on the stove. The burner hisses like it hates me.
“Thank God the stove works, I would have cried if it didn’t.”
“I don’t know. I’ve had cold soup before, and it’s not the end of the world.” I can hear her smile through the phone.
“Wish I had some bread though.”
“Isn’t there like a sort of DoorDash service there or something?”
“I have no idea,” I reply, and frankly, I don’t care. I’ll just down this and call it a night.”
Soon enough, the soup is ready, and I carry the pot with me over to the sofa. It’s old, scratchy, and still smells like dust even though I washed it thoroughly—but I am long past caring. The soup smells wonderful. I flop down on the sofa, the springs creaking loudly under me. I’ll have to buy some new furniture too.
I eat the soup straight from the pot. It’s warm and salty, and because I’m really hungry and a bit cold, it tastes better than any soup I’ve ever had. I continue chatting with Sandy about Daniel, her familiar voice grounding me and giving me a sense of normalcy, so I’m not too freaked out by being in the middle of nowhere. The pot is scraped empty by the time I’m done. I put my spoon down and I put the pot on top of a nearby pile of books and try to settle into the couch. I have no plans of moving for the next hour at least so I listen to Sandy and thank God, as always, she’s able to go on and on.
Chapter
Eight
LAUREN
Ifeel myself get sleepy listening to the soothing hum of her voice and I almost drift off into sleep when there’s a knock on the door. Determined and loud, it startles me awake. I blink hard, heart thumping slow and heavy, not sure where I am for a second. Was I asleep? What time is it? Sandy’s voice hums faint from somewhere—something about Daniel—but it’s distant, muffled, like it’s sinking into the walls.
I sit up, the sofa creaking loudly under me, my head foggy as hell. I don’t even know where my phone is—dropped it, maybe, lost in the blanket or the junk. The knock comes again, a little louder, and I freeze, breath catching. It’s late—too late for visitors. I ease off the sofa, legs shaky, and shuffle over, stepping carefully through the dark, the floor cold under my socks. My toe catches some damn box on its hard edge, and I curse.
“Ow, fuck!” Pain stings up my leg. I stop, lean against the wall to rub it, then hobble to the door.
I grab the handle, turn it slowly, and pull it open. The hinges groan like a horror movie.
And there he is—neighbor guy, tall, dark, and… shirtless, just standing there, framed in the night like he belongs to it. I stare, mouth dry, shocked still, my pulse thudding in my ears. He steps in, uninvited, and I’m thinking—why the hell am I letting him?
“Look,” he says, voice low, steady, “we got off on the wrong foot.” Moonlight spills through the window, pale and cold, catching his face, and shit—he’s gorgeous, those gray eyes glinting, sharp like they’re slicing me open. I want to say something—offer tea, snap at him, anything—but my tongue’s stuck, heavy. He’s closer now and, slowly, brushes hair off my face, his fingers grazing my ear, soft, warm. I should push him—should—but those eyes lock on mine, deep and quiet, and my strength just slips away, draining out slowly, leaving me standing there, lost. What the hell is happening?
“You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,” he says, his voice low and rough. My eyes widen with shock. The air between us vibrates with the intensity coming off him. Each word hangs heavily in the cold night air.