Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I can’t say I tracked her down via her website because there wasn’t an address listed there. I was tempted to call the number she dialed from my phone the night we met, but that felt intrusive, so I dived into her socials as Dante and I ate lunch. I pulled up an image of her standing in front of this brownstone wearing a light pink blouse and jean cut-offs.
I stared at it for too long and not because I was trying to read the numbers on the house in the background. My gaze was locked on her.
Her hair was straight in the image. She had a pair of sunglasses perched on her head, and her smile was wide and open.
She’s a beautiful woman.
I clear my throat. “Would it creep you out if I told you I looked at your Instagram account?”
She gives her head a shake. “Did I post a picture that showed the front of this building?”
“You did.” I finish the water in my glass in one swallow. “It showed the last two digits of the address. I figured out the rest based on the exterior of the brownstone. I can pinpoint the location of almost any building in this part of the city by sight.”
Skepticism knits her brow. “You can?”
“Sure,” I answer. “It comes with the job.”
“What job?” she asks quickly.
I straighten my back and look her in the eye. “I’m a fireman.”
I’m damn proud of what I do. The desire to be a firefighter has always been an integral part of who I am. My dad tells me stories of when I was a kid and my relentless drive to own any toy fire truck I could get my hands on. It became a family joke of sorts. My aunts, uncles, and cousins would constantly drop by our house with fire trucks in hand.
I saved them all. They are packed in boxes in the closet in my bedroom.
“Really?” Her eyes widen. “I’ve never met a fireman before.”
For some reason, I like knowing that.
“So, you could tell where I lived based on a picture that didn’t show my entire address?” She grins. “Did you put out a fire near here recently?”
The question doesn’t come out as a joke, but there’s a definite teasing edge to it.
“I did,” I answer truthfully. “It was at an apartment around the corner from here three years ago.”
“Oh no.”
I hold out a hand to reassure her. “It was a kitchen fire. The damage was minimal, and no one was hurt.”
Her hand jumps to the middle of her chest. “Good.”
Empathy is a hard sell if you don’t naturally possess it. I sense she does.
It’s one of the reasons she didn’t abandon me the other day when I stormed into her wedding.
Our eyes lock for a few seconds.
Her lips part before she sucks in a deep breath. “I suppose you’re wondering why I left the church with you. I’m sure you have questions about that.”
I do. They brought me here, but now, they don’t seem as important anymore.
“If you feel like sharing, I’m all ears.” I move to stand. “If not, I’ll take a crack at that puzzle. Maybe I can lend a hand and get you on the right track.”
She glances at the table, and the hundreds of pieces of small jagged cardboard laid out waiting to be fit together. “You already have.”
Chapter 11
Afton
I watch as Luke slides a puzzle piece across the table toward several others. His hands are large. I remember how it felt to hold onto one as I raced out of the church and away from Warren.
I felt alive in a way I never had before, even though I was running into the unknown with a stranger.
“So your best friend and your brother live upstairs?” Luke glances at me. “I rang the bell there before I tried your door.”
I smile, thinking about what Nelson’s reaction would have been if he had opened the door to find Luke on his stoop.
I’m sure he would have invited him in and made him a coffee.
He did that when a woman knocked on his door asking about a pot of flowers that sits atop the steps. They spent more than an hour together talking about gardening. She still pops by from time to time to say hi to him and Joel.
My brother has a big heart.
“It’s been great living so close to them,” I confess. “We spend a lot of time together.”
He snaps two puzzle pieces together. “I live alone.”
That feels like an invitation to ask about Brooklyn, but I don’t do it. I can’t push him to talk about his ex if I’m uncomfortable talking about mine.
“I’m renting an apartment that belongs to my oldest brother,” he goes on, “Brooklyn and I lived there together for awhile before things ended.”
Since he stepped into the conversation, I follow. “When did things end?”