Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Should we redecorate the guest wing gazebo?” she asks from across the house, fussing with her poinsettias by the sliding patio door. “He’s arriving in half an hour!” I shout back from under the dinner table, tightening a nut or two that keeps making it squeak. “That’s plenty of time!” she sings back.
I’m straightening window curtains when my mom lets out a hoot of excitement from behind me and cries, “This means he’ll be here for my Fourth of July Boomin’ Barbecue!” I can’t even when I shout back, “I thought the Strongs were doing it!” She laughs me off and cries, “Nadine’s got waaay too much on her plate as Mayor. I took it off her hands. What’s that look on your face for??”
I should’ve told her already. Days ago. I meant to, I really did. But it just kept turning into this big nightmare in my head I kept telling myself I’d deal with later. And now it’s later.
The last thing I needed was two of us spiraling. Nevertheless, here we are. Like mother like son, or something?
Then my phone dings. My mom and I both pop our heads up from opposite sides of the guestroom bed we just remade.
I meet my mom’s eyes across the sheets. “Five minutes out.”
“But I haven’t checked the last guestroom!”
“I … He’s …” I swallow hard and fight for the words. “He’ll just stay in mine. In my room. With me.”
“Are you insane?” she politely asks. “Why would our valued guest crowd you in yours when we have plenty of empty rooms to choose from?”
“Valued guest? What are we, a Marriott?”
“He can stay in the one right next to yours.”
“Mom …”
“Everyone needs their space to rest, and you sweat up a storm when you sleep and kick around a lot. Besides, you’ll be spending every day together. Ooh, should we get the projector set up? We can do a movie night right after dinner! You two are joining us for dinner in an hour, aren’t you?”
I’m seriously regretting this. “Please don’t go making plans. I don’t want the whole town here for a ‘welcome TJ’s new friend to town’ party you throw at us Saturday night or something.”
“No, that’s planned for Sunday.” At the look on my face, she narrows her eyes. “Kidding, TJ, relax.”
“And you wonder why I almost didn’t tell you. Oh!” I catch my gaze in the floor-length mirror. “I haven’t changed!”
“You look fine, don’t worry! But if you are changing, I vote for the yellow top with matching shorts.” Obviously she’s been by my room and saw the clothing catastrophe. “It being summer and all.”
I fly back to my room. I go through seven outfits in a hurry—and end up in the yellow top with matching shorts.
When the house fills with the daunting dissonance of our loud and severely outdated doorbell, I shit my pants.
Then appear at the front door like a butler. Forget how to breathe. Suck in air. Then pull it open.
And suddenly I understand why I didn’t tell my mom.
How do you prepare anyone for someone like this?
Austin Chase Love. A vision, even in a casual pair of jeans and a loose white tee, tucked in partly at the front to show off his belt with a not-too-dinner-plate-esque buckle, and a maroon-and-white threadbare baseball cap shielding his eyes from the sun.
His lips curl up. “Howdy.”
Just fuck me right here in the doorway. “Hey.”
Then a third and highly unnecessary, “Hello!” from my mom, who appears immediately at my back like an intrusive thought. “It is so great to see you again, Austin! Come in out of the sun! You must be thirsty. How long was your drive? I’ll fix you something to drink. Lemonade? Iced water? Sweet tea?”
“Mom,” I mutter under my breath—but Austin steps in, takes her hand into a warm shake, and says, “Thank you, Cissy. I’ll take a sweet tea, awful nice of you.”
“Oh, it’s—it’s nothing,” my mom swoons, breathless at the use of her name, no doubt—I roll my eyes—and then she’s off for the kitchen. “Make yourself at home!” she calls out behind her. “TJ, go help him bring in his things! Austin, hope you parked closer than before! You can use the covered parking at the side, y’know! And if you want—” She’s in the kitchen now, which is basically a soccer field away from us at this point, and no words can be made out.
The three of us stand around the counter with drinks in hand, my mom chatting away nonstop about all kinds of nonsense—after ensuring we are, in fact, staying for dinner, currently filling up the kitchen with an irresistibly appetizing aroma of meats, herbs, and something sweet—I comfort myself with the fact that this initial hell is about to be over with.
Then the back door opens. In walks my dad, authoritative yet calm, shiny shoes clacking on the tile, eyes friendly yet sharp as he approaches. Guess he was in the guesthouse office this whole time and just now chose to emerge.