Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
I flop onto my bed, sending sprigs of curly brown hair bouncing against the sheets I wrangled into submission only thirty minutes ago. I’ve changed the sheets, cooked a feast fit for a king, and rid my body of almost every hair it owns.
It’s fortunate this week has been good, or I may have had a Britney Spears 2007 moment.
During the first bounce of the mattress springs, the doorbell rings. For a moment, I’m confused. Why would Roy need to knock? Then I remember how he lost his keys three months ago.
He was attending a business meeting almost an hour from here. He refused to call an Uber, so I had to drive over two hours to pick him up since I was at work.
Then I had to listen to him whine for another four hours while I finished my shift with the catering company I fought to get off the ground weeks shy of my twenty-first birthday.
We were short a staff member. Roy could have helped, but that seems to be beyond his capabilities. I’m unsure if he knows the definition of hard work. He’s never touched a dustpan or dishcloth in his life.
All the chores are on my shoulders—including the “man” jobs like mowing, weeding, and edging.
“Just a minute,” I shout when the doorbell buzzes again.
I race through the foyer of my modest yet cozy home, dodging Tempy and her excited twirls.
The floorplan of my home is a retro ’70s layout but with the modern features you’d seek from a loft in New York. I love my home.
It and my catering business have been my only saving grace for the past decade.
After snagging a coat from a rack by the door, my intuition warning me that answering my caller’s knocks in a mesh-and-rope teddy will only end one way—badly—I plaster a fake smile onto my face and pull open the door.
“Happy anniversary…”
My high-pitched celebratory tone croaks at the end, startled by the person at the door. It isn’t Roy or Mrs. Gessler who often comes over for a cup of sugar and three hours of nonstop gossip.
It is a man with one leg longer than the other, a wonky smile, and slicked-back hair.
“Mrs. Martin?”
“Yes. Hello.” I sound confused. Justly so. My name isn’t on the deed of this house. Roy said not a single broker would take a risk on me since I was without stable employment.
He made it seem that my business has been in the red longer than its inaugural year and that his income outranks mine twenty to one.
For future reference, that isn’t close to the truth.
My company is keeping on the gas, electricity, and every other silly gimmick Roy is adamant he can’t live without. It has also paid the mortgage every month for the past six years.
“Are you seeking Roy?”
He seems like the type who’d work with Roy. His smile is cocky, but his composure screams that there’s a stick shoved up his ass. It is as obvious as the alarm bells that rang in my head precisely fourteen years ago today.
When my caller’s eyes remain steadfast on my chest, I tug my coat in tighter, mindful from the cool winds whipping through the door that my outfit offers little coverage.
“He should be back at any moment.” Against the better judgment of my head, I open the door all the way and gesture for him to enter. “You can wait in the foyer.”
He shakes his head, sending blond locks spilling down his face. “That’s fine. I’m not here for Roy.” He coughs before finally lifting his head. “I’m here for you.”
“Me?” I touch my chest, returning his focus to my puckered nipples barely concealed by a thin coat. It is chilly today. But I’m suddenly fretful it has nothing to do with the cool change the weather forecaster projected for the rest of the month.
My caller doesn’t look up while saying, “I’m here to serve you these.”
He thrusts an official-looking envelope my way. His grunt of disappointment when it covers my breasts ruffles the curls I left down to frame my heart-shaped face.
After another lingering stare, he sighs dramatically and then turns on his heel and leaves.
He barely makes it halfway down the footpath that will never require salting before he twists back around. A million words run through his head; however, he only speaks six. “Once you’re sorted, look me up.” I’m about to tell him I have no clue who he is, much less how to contact him, when he nudges his head to the envelope. “All my details are in there.”
With a wink, he slips into the back of an idling town car and vanishes down the tree-lined street.
I stare in the direction he left for several seconds before lowering my eyes to the puffed-out envelope. The seal states it is from a law firm. It isn’t the same firm Roy works for, but it is in the same zip code and specializes in the same field of expertise—divorce litigation.