Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Try what? I don’t understand this job.” I head back into the pantry to fill the mug with water and grab a tea bag.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says when I come out of the pantry.
“Why can’t you be her muse? What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Besides the obvious.”
“What’s the obvious?” He eyes me with distrust before drinking the rest of his green beverage.
“Your age and you wear pajamas with a robe and slippers. You’re not horribly out of shape. You’re acting healthy by drinking that green crap, but you have Pop-Tarts waiting for you in the toaster.” I bob the tea bag in the water. “Maybe things down below aren’t working like they used to. I don’t know, and I don’t care. Maybe you should try a little harder. And don’t people like you have servants or something to make tea?”
“Servants?” He laughs, passing me to retrieve his Pop-Tarts. “I don't believe that's a common term anymore.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We have employees, like yourself, who do things for us. A housekeeper. Someone who washes windows. But that’s about it. We cook our own food. Launder our own clothes. Now, my neighbor? The asshole who bought the house I wanted? He hired a homemaker. That was her title. She wore 1950s housedresses and heels. She gardened. Baked me a pie for my birthday, and did God only knows what else.” He returns, holding his Pop-Tarts by the edges.
“Yeah.” I toss the tea bag into the trash. “That’s weird shit. Unlike hiring a muse.”
“Touché, Flynn.” Rupert sets the Pop-Tarts on a plate, then rinses out his glass. “But I didn’t actively look for you. You sort of stumbled into this job.”
“Well, my life has been an endless series of stumbling into shitty situations.”
“Then stop stumbling. Keep your head up. Walk taller and with purpose.”
I roll my eyes. “You act like luck has nothing to do with it.”
“Luck matters.” He spreads butter on his Pop-Tarts. “As luck would have it, I showed you mercy. This could be life-changing for you.”
“Doubt it,” I mumble, stealing one of his Pop-Tarts on my way out of the kitchen.
I knock twice before opening Callie’s door.
She meets me in the middle of the room and takes the tea from me. After a slow sip, she smiles. “Much better.”
I wipe my face for any crumbs while focusing on the wall filled with framed photos. Real people photos. Not Mona Lisa-style paintings.
There’s a photo of Callie at a beach with a young boy. There are other pictures of the boy, but older. I glance over my shoulder at her.
“Your son?”
She nods before easing into her chair.
“Oh, he’s married?” I point to the wedding photo.
“Was,” she says as I continue to study the photos. There’s one with her son and a little boy.
“You have a grandson?”
She stares out the window. A tiny smile touches her lips as she nods and blots the corners of her eyes.
Shit. I’m making her cry. There must be a family rift. What do rich people fight about?
“I grew up in the system since age three. So if I have kids, they won’t have grandparents. I hope your son knows how lucky his kid is.”
She fiddles with her wedding band, gazing past me to the wall of photos.
“People say children who suffer abuse often abuse their own kids,” I say.
Callie’s gaze shoots to me.
I shake my head. “But that’s bullshit. I’ll never lay a hand on my kids. Just the opposite. I’ll probably end up in prison for killing anyone who tries to lay a hand on them or says one negative word about them.”
“You’ll make a good father.”
I sit on the bench at the end of her bed and blow out a deep sigh. “You know that girl from the gallery? The bike tour girl?”
Callie nods.
“I had ice cream with her last night.”
“Oh yeah?”
“It didn’t go well. I mean, I thought it was going great. I wore some of the new clothes you bought me. I paid for the ice cream. We discussed the scar on her lip, which, as my roommate suspected, is from a cleft lip. But I said nothing bad about it. It’s unique. I mean, I know no one wants to have a birth defect, but she’s basically the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. Perfect, really. Which means the scar is kind of perfect too. Anyway, things were good. I offered to drive her home. She wasn’t comfortable with that, so I suggested another date, and then she asked me why I wanted to date her. That’s where it all went to shit.” I bow my head and run my fingers through my hair.
“She doesn’t even know I’ve done time,” I say. “That’ll probably be a real deal-breaker, anyway. I just fumble my words around her, and I can’t think. Not quickly. And when I couldn’t give her an immediate answer, she left.”