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)
“Relevant as in, talking to you . . . or the fact that I’m not supposed to.”
“Who said that?”
“Everyone.”
My eyes widen. Did my parents say something? Shit. “Calm down. Just other members of the staff. Your secret is safe for now.”
“My secret?”
“That you don’t mind talking to the staff.”
I open and then shut my mouth, not really knowing what to say. “Who would I be in this story . . . since it’s so relevant.”
“I never said it was relevant. You did.”
“Heathcliff?”
“Again . . . you said that. Not me.”
“Just answer.”
I hesitate, then sigh. “That depends on how you end it.”
He tilts his head. “You think I’m going to destroy everything and haunt the girl?”
“I think you could,” I respond quietly. “But I don’t think you will.”
That shuts him up for once.
He finishes fixing the door.
I lean back on the bench until my back hits the wall behind me, arms crossed, watching him like he’s a puzzle I want to solve. If only there were a cheat code.
“Do you read?” I ask.
“Of course I read,” he huffs.
Is it possible for me to sound like a bigger bitch? I keep saying shit I don’t mean and look like an idiot. I chalk it up to nerves. Lorenzo has me wrapped in knots, but jeez, I need to think before I speak. “I meant for pleasure. Not everyone does.”
“When I can steal the time.”
I stretch my arm out to place the book in his hand. “You could read this.”
He flips to the first page. His gaze drifts over the words before he closes it and hands it back. “Or you could read it to me.”
That catches me off guard. “Seriously?”
He nods. “You brought it. Might as well commit.”
I stare at him for a long second, then open the book.
“Chapter one,” I start. “1801. I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbor that I shall be troubled with.”
He chuckles. “Sounds familiar.”
Lorenzo stands, then does something that takes me completely by surprise. He plops down on the bench next to me.
“You haven’t even met my neighbors.”
“I meant you.” He laughs. The sound does crazy things to my belly, but rather than focus on that, I playfully roll my eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Keep reading.”
So I do.
We sit there for almost an hour. Each word hangs in the air, heavy and weighted. The longer I read, the closer he gets, and at some point, he’s right beside me. Only a breath away. Our bodies almost touch, and I want desperately to cross the space.
I don’t, though. I read. He listens.
Occasionally, he asks questions. Most are dry and sarcastic. “Why is everyone in this book miserable?” or “Has anyone ever made a good decision on the moors?”
It’s easy. Too easy. And I like it. Which is probably why I start to feel something close to nervous. Not because I don’t know what I’m doing. But because, for once, I don’t care. I’m playing with fire being here with Lorenzo, but I don’t care.
“Why did you come here today?” His voice is soft, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.
I look up from the book and at him. “Here?”
“The boathouse that is clearly abandoned, as you pointed out earlier.”
I consider what to say. To be honest? Or not? I opt for a half-truth.
“Because this place is real. And you’re not boring.” I don’t say I followed him, but it’s implied.
He snorts, having the courtesy of not calling me out. “High praise from the glass tower.”
“Don’t mock me, Lorenzo.”
“I’m not.” He looks at me. Really looks. “I like that you read books and talk back and don’t flinch when someone tells you no.”
“Is that a compliment?”
He shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. You ever think we’re just the background to someone else’s story?” I ask.
“Everyday. Especially when I’m working in the kitchen,” he says. “But otherwise, when I’m not in this house, I’m the main character.”
“Of course you are.”
He smirks. “So are you, Little Bird.”
“You keep calling me that like you think it’s charming.”
“Not charming.” He lifts his brows. “But true.”
I don’t have a comeback. So instead, I open the book again.
Because it’s easier to lose myself in someone else's storm than admit I’m standing in the middle of my own.
8
Lorenzo
The first time she read to me, I didn’t expect to give a damn. The idea that she would even want to spend time with me was so foreign that my brain could barely process the words coming out of her mouth.
I just watched her . . .
Completely enthralled. The whole moment felt loaded.
A turning point I had no hope of controlling.
Her voice, her words, they crawled under my skin, and days later, they’re still there, whispering things I don’t want to hear.
Because Victoria Danforth read them to me.