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)
There are angels and clouds painted on the ceiling. I knew they must be related to the dude who painted Mona. I chuckle and shake my head.
As the door clicks open, I wipe the smile from my face. Callie steps past me and jerks her head toward the hallway. I jump up and fall in line behind her.
“Maybe you should put a leash on me,” I say.
She halts, then turns. The top of her head reaches my shoulders, and she tips her chin to look at me. How does she make me feel this small with one look? Oh, that’s right. She’s so rich that no matter how tall I am, it will always seem like she’s looking down on me.
But then, she snorts, eyes sparkling with amusement before her lips purse and she shrugs like the leash is a possibility. I instinctively stroke my neck as if I can feel the collar tightening like a noose, which makes her grin swell a little more before she pivots and heads downstairs. Like an obedient dog, I follow with my tail between my legs.
She leads me through a formal living room, a library, and a laundry room with dark cabinets, a brass chandelier, and an arched stained-glass window. So weird. Who puts a chandelier in a laundry room?
They have a six-car garage with carriage-style doors and iron hinges, shiny epoxy floors, and four vehicles: the infamous joyride car, an older, burgundy red Porsche, a white Bentley, and a black Tesla—which is the one she leads me to.
“A Tesla because it’s self-driving?” I ask, opening the driver’s door.
“It’s quiet,” she says. “The world has enough noise.”
I close the door and glance right while reaching for the seat belt. “Is it locked?” I holler, looking for the locks while she stands at the door. Then I step out of the car and peer at her over the roof.
“Manners matter, Flynn.”
Shit.
I jog around the car and open the door for her.
She smirks, sliding into the seat. After I return to the driver’s side, she studies me while fastening her seat belt.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
We pull out of the garage and take a right onto the one-way street as she types the address onto the screen. It’s an address in the North Loop, the Warehouse District, which is a hub for entertainment, dining, and shopping.
“Do you have kids?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply. Maybe she didn’t hear me.
“Do you have—”
“A son,” she says.
I nod several times. “Does he live at home?”
“Not anymore.” She stares out the window.
“What does he do?”
Before answering, she takes a deep breath. “Whatever he wants.”
Spoiled rich kid.
“Well, that must be nice,” I say without trying to sound too sarcastic.
“Nice?” she whispers like an echo. “I suppose it is.”
“How old is he?”
Her lips twist for a second. “Twenty-eight. Do you have siblings, Flynn?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Interesting answer. Tell me about your parents,” she says.
“Can’t. Well, my mom had long, black hair.”
“Your mom died? Or she no longer has black hair?”
I shrug. “She disappeared when I was three.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I guess. But if she left me, how great of a mom was she?”
“Who raised you?”
“I did.”
Callie turns toward me, but I don’t look at her. Pity is my least favorite emotion.
“I mean, there were others. People who were supposed to be responsible for me, but I think they just wanted the money. Ya know, those who think fostering kids is a good side gig?”
“Sorry to hear that. I know plenty of good people who have fostered children, and the stipends don’t cover everything, but they don’t expect it to.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t experienced that.”
“What?”
“Good foster parents.”
She doesn’t respond, but after a few miles pass, she touches my wrist with her freakishly icy hand. At first, it startles me, but then I realize she’s trying to still my hand—my fidgety drumming of it on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” I say.
“I need a calm muse.”
I need to search up the meaning of muse. But calm? No. I’ve never been calm. What does that feel like? I’m not even a calm sleeper. My roommate says I talk in my sleep.
I park along the street on the opposite side of the old brick building with residential lofts on the second floor above the gallery. Then, I hop out and cross the street. When I turn, Callie waves from the car, fingers fluttering.
“Crap,” I mumble, looking both ways before jogging back across the street and opening her door.
“Manners matter, Flynn.” She smirks, stepping out of the car.
I have many scars on my body as reminders to have good manners. If all she gives me is a sarcastic grin, I’ll take it.
“Sorry,” I mumble, for the millionth time.
She hooks her purse over her shoulder, saunters to the stoplight, and presses the button to cross. There are no cars coming from either direction. Does she ever break the rules?