Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Takes one to know one.”
“Very true. Is it the house? Did it personally insult you, or do you just not like rich people?”
“Depends on the people.”
“And me?”
He glances at me. “The jury is still out on you.”
“And why is that?”
“You haven’t decided what kind of rich girl you want to be yet.”
I blink. “That’s . . . not wrong.”
He looks back at the garden.
“Most of the people here are trying so hard to belong. You look like you’re trying to fly away.”
My throat feels tight.
He doesn’t say it like a compliment. He says it like the truth.
And still, it rattles something deep inside me. Something small and trapped. I turn away before he can see my face.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Lorenzo. I’m delicate.”
“You’re not delicate, Little Bird. You’re just bored.”
He’s right. Again.
I pick up a fallen petal from the path and twist it between my fingers.
“Little Bird. Shouldn’t it be Rapunzel if I’m watching from a tower?”
He looks at me for a long time.
“You might be perched in glass towers, but you act like your wings are broken.”
“Aren’t they?” I whisper under my breath.
“No. They’re not. You just haven’t figured out where to fly yet.”
Silence. The kind that fills all the spaces words fail to reach.
I drop the petal. It floats down like something surrendering.
“I should go,” I say softly.
“You should.”
I don’t, not right away, because I want to stay. I want to ask more questions. Push past the guard-dog glare and dig until I find whatever fire burns beneath that skin.
But I don’t.
Because I’m not stupid.
And if I stay, I will burn too.
So I leave.
But I don’t fly.
Not yet.
7
Victoria
No matter how hard I tell myself I shouldn’t be walking this way, I can’t stop my feet from carrying me in the direction I’m heading.
The old boathouse sits at the far edge of the estate. A forgotten structure that has long been left abandoned and replaced by a new building closer to the house.
No one comes here.
Which is why when I saw him walking in this direction, I couldn’t help but follow.
The first thing I see as I round the path is peeling white paint. Ivy also crawls up one side as if trying to reclaim it for nature.
The next thing I notice is him.
My heart sputters in my chest with excitement. I knew he would be here, of course, but his presence still takes my breath away.
You got it bad, Victoria.
I blame my sheltered life.
In all my seventeen years on this planet, stuck in this gilded cage, I’ve never met a boy like him. One who awakens feelings inside me that I’ve never had before.
Speaking of the devil . . .
There he is.
Lorenzo is currently crouched near the door. One hand braces the splintered frame, and the other grips a screwdriver with the kind of focus I usually reserve for surviving dinner with my parents.
“What are you doing?” I ask, slipping past him.
“Trying not to lose a finger,” he mutters. “Door sticks. Figured I’d fix it before it caves in and takes someone with it.”
“What a hero,” I say. “Next, you’ll be rescuing cats from trees and winning humanitarian awards.”
He doesn’t look up. “That was the original plan.”
“Bet you love it.”
He looks up then. Eyes dark and unreadable. “Maybe . . . Do you?”
“You know that no one comes in here, right? You’re wasting your time.”
His shoulders lift into a shrug. “I got nothing else to do on my day off, so I might as well keep busy.”
“You’re fixing a door on your day off?”
“Not everyone is allowed to use the pool.”
I’m not even sure how to respond to that, so I don’t. Instead, I drop onto the dusty bench near the back window. Sunlight filters through warped panes, bringing a strange dimension to the space. It’s almost cinematic how the light bounces around, making his silhouette dance across the floor in shadows.
Not wanting to be caught staring, I reach into the bag I brought when I thought I was heading to the beach and pull out a book.
“Wuthering Heights?” Lorenzo asks, and I lift my gaze to find him squinting at the book cover.
“Have you read it?”
“No.”
“Then don’t knock it. It’s not all corsets and rain.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a face.”
He takes the book from my hands and turns it over to examine it. “This is what you think I want to read? Doomed love?”
“I think you’re broody enough to qualify as a Brontë character.” I shrug. “Besides, it’s not about love. It’s about obsession. And consequence. And class.” The moment the words pour from my mouth, his eyes narrow. Shit. What did I say? Oh . . . I want to bury myself in a hole for speaking about class. Way to put your foot in your mouth.
“Is this supposed to be relevant?”
“Relevant?” Smart, Victoria . . . play dumb.