Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
She’s trying hard too. At CAFFEINE, she does her best, though, I will admit, she is almost comically bad at barista-ing. And at home, she’s conscious of her actions and considerate with my time and energy.
But I think what she’s trying hardest of all to do is pretend none of her problems are actually happening, and man, can I relate to that one.
I’ve asked her about Thomas and Eleanor and all the things that really happened in New York, and she’s asked me about Clay—after that night in his bar, the fact that there’s something between us is undeniable. We’ve both declined to answer.
Some traits, it would seem, truly are hereditary.
I pull into a spot in front of my old haunt of employment, Harold’s diner on Main, and turn the key to shut off the engine on my SUV. Norah’s doing an interview to find something she’s slightly better at than barista-ing, and even though I hesitated at first, I’m letting her use the old Civic.
It’s not doing anyone any good sitting there, and maybe if I start to think of it as hers, I won’t think about everything it used to be anymore and I won’t think about what happened one of the last times I drove it.
I grab my purse from the front passenger seat and climb out, hustling inside and heading straight to the table I saw Eileen Martin sitting at through the window. She’s been pursuing this meeting for months, and even though there’s a history with her I’d rather not tap into, running some coupons for CAFFEINE in the paper really would be a good thing.
“Hey, Eileen. Sorry I’m a little late.”
“Oh, no trouble at all, hun,” she hums. “Not like I have things to do or places to be.”
I don’t bother hiding it as I roll my eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, Eileen. I know how busy you are.”
Everyone does. She’s the textbook definition of a busybody.
She smiles, and the crow’s-feet wrinkles around her eyes crinkle deeper. “I guess you saw the article about your sister and that Bennett Bishop, then? Good, wasn’t it?”
“A little overdramatized if you ask me.”
Eileen scoffs, sipping from her coffee cup. “Drama sells, girl.”
I scowl. “You said there was a gang of vagabonds led by a dark, cloaked leader, and that Bennett single-handedly stopped their criminal ways with his hands. And that Norah was their former muse and captive. I appreciate your not using their full names, but c’mon, Eileen, you have to admit you were pushing it.”
“I like a stacked deck.” She shrugs and runs her fingers over the pearl necklace she always pairs with a cardigan. “Plus, Sheriff Peeler buys me dinner sometimes if I make him look like he’s got superpowers or somethin’.”
I laugh despite her bullshit. That definitely sounds like something the old goat Pete would do.
“All right, well. Let’s talk coupons so you can get back to…making shit up, I guess.”
Eileen’s mouth curves up, unashamed. “I can run them in the Sunday paper twice, but I don’t recommend it.”
My eyebrows draw together. “I’m confused. I…thought this meeting was about putting coupons in the paper? And the paper runs on Sunday? Why wouldn’t you recommend running them twice?”
She waves a hand in front of her face. “Yeah, but the advertising section is crap. No one even reads it anyway.”
“Eileen.” I glare at her. “You begged me for this meeting.”
“I want an exclusive,” she announces and meets my current stare head on. “Heard lots of talk about you and Clay last Tuesday in the bar. Lots of tension.”
Instantly annoyed, I grab my purse from the booth and scoot out. Eileen’s voice is far more smug and far less pleading than it should be as she tries to stop me. “Oh, relax, Josie. Whatever went down between the two of you happened years ago. The least you can do is settle it all in everyone’s minds. Even the government declassifies information after so many years.”
“Leave me alone,” I order, turning back only to point in her face. She’s chastened a little, but if I know Eileen, when she’s driven to get the story, nothing will stop her.
A silence falls over the diner as I storm out and run to my Acadia, jumping in and slamming the door behind me. I pause briefly and then grab on to the steering wheel, letting out a scream of frustration.
What the fuck! What the fuck! What. The. Fuck.
When I notice half the town and Eileen herself are still watching me through the window, I gather myself enough to turn the key, shift to reverse, and back out of the spot. I pull the shifter into drive and take off, my emotions running away from me like they’re attached to a freight train.
I round the square and turn right and then left and then back again without a clue where I’m going. I don’t stop for anything, instead holding my foot to the gas like it’s linked to the pace of my heart.