Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Mr. Joshua. It’s Gabe’s friend. I almost ask if this is his apartment, but I keep my lips shut tight, allowing Mrs. Shaw to lead me wherever she wants. Gratitude hits me for the first time, and tears threaten, but I hold them back.
Mrs. Shaw wraps a comforting arm around my shoulder, and her grim smile tells me that while this woman might not know all the details, she’s well-versed enough in the ways of rich men to know that this isn’t a social visit.
After sitting me down on an overstuffed gray sofa, she goes into the kitchen, coming back a minute later with a frothy cup. “Eggnog,” she says, handing me the mug. “The thickness will help settle your nerves.”
Her smile wavers, and I can feel a wave of pity from the woman. I nod gratefully and accept the mug, sipping at it. It’s got plenty of punch to it, and with each sip my brain seems to trick itself a little bit more and more into calming down. Finally, when it’s gone, I hand it back to her. “Thank you.”
She takes the mug and disappears, coming back with a duster to take care of the mantel over what I assume is a decorative fireplace. It leaves me with nothing to do but stare at the clock that tick, tick, ticks. Bundled in a throw blanket and very much still an emotional wreck, all I can think is that I wish Gabriel would call me. I pull out my phone, but that’s quickly put to an end. Seeing me with it in my hand, Mrs. Shaw advises me, “I wouldn’t send a text message. Mr. Joshua says that whenever someone uses this apartment, I’m supposed to tell them to sit tight and wait. Reaching out doesn’t help with things.”
I’m quick to nod and put my phone down on the coffee table. “I don’t know what to do,” I barely manage to say. My fingers still tremble, and I shove them under my thighs to make them stop. I just wish I could go back. I wish I’d screamed for help or done anything else.
Mrs. Shaw is kind enough to interrupt my thoughts before I can spiral.
“We can watch TV if you’d like. Mr. Joshua has a full cable package available. I do like watching General Hospital. It starts in just over half an hour.”
Somehow, the image of this prim, put-together woman enjoying the sudsy melodramatic adventures of a daytime soap is just enough to distract me for a moment.
As if reading my mind, she tells me, “Distracting yourself is a good idea right now.”
I look toward the door, and Mrs. Shaw shakes her head. “Don’t worry, Miss. Mr. Joshua knows how to take care of things. That man helped my family long ago, and even though I’d clean this house for free for him in return, he still pays me double my normal rate I charge my other clients. He’s generous but also very, very good.”
My voice is low as I ask her, “So you have a secret too?”
Mrs. Shaw chuckles. “Of course. We all have secrets, Miss . . . Now, can I get you a snack?” With her head tilted, she waits for me expectantly.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“I think it might be good for you to eat. I think . . . whoever you’re waiting for would appreciate your eating?”
I nod, and Mrs. Shaw fixes us a snack, a beautiful charcuterie board with dried fruits and nuts, a number of cheeses, sliced summer sausage, sliced ham, and an array of crackers. She hums as she goes, and I listen to her, doing everything I can not to think about what happened.
Time ticks on, that clock never stopping. The TV plays, and it turns to white noise in the background. I can’t help but look between my phone and the door, my hands gripping the throw blanket to keep me from calling him.
All the while, Mrs. Shaw reminds me that it’s alright and for me to simply wait.
Hours pass, and just as fear and dread compete to take over, the buzzer at the entrance buzzes once quickly, then four longer buzzes. “Ah, that’s Mr. Joshua,” Mrs. Shaw says, standing up and brushing off her apron.
I turn from where I’m sitting so I can see the door, and the moment it opens, every ounce of composure slips. I leap to my feet as Gabriel comes in with a tall, broad-shouldered man. I practically run across the room to embrace him. “Gabriel!”
His scent, his warmth, and his touch are a soothing balm. I murmur, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I’ve never been so sorry in my entire life.
“Shh . . . it’s okay,” he says, but his voice is deeply grim. He kisses me on the forehead and releases me to introduce his friend I’ve heard so much about. “Kiersten, this is Joshua.”