Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“School assembly . . . Are you actually out of your mind? I asked you yesterday to press C and you pressed F.”
“I’m not saying the gig is without difficulties—”
“You are not a pianist!”
“Well, sometimes pretending is the best thing to do. It can be healing. That’s what I’m doing for Leo.”
Grayson wagged the icing pouch in his direction. “Being yourself always wins in the end. I’ll prove it to you. Ah! I have another job for you.”
Grayson briefly abandoned his cupcakes, came to the counter and pulled out a box of receipts and a laptop. He started it up, did some clicking, and turned it to Carl. “Simple enough. Plug the totals from those receipts into this spreadsheet, in the correct category, to tally up these expenses.”
Carl stared at all those swimming numbers and nodded. He did this stuff at home, too. Not in Excel though. All those grids looked a bit daunting, but he’d manage. One by one, Carl collected numbers and used his phone calculator to determine the totals. An hour passed, and the bakery opened for business, and Carl squirrelled away in a corner to finish the box.
An hour after that, with a few receipts to go, Sage arrived, all bright smiles and boundless energy. She played a song from her phone and Grayson whisked her into a dance; they moved and laughed like they did this as a daily tradition. Carl kept peeking over, amused, mesmerised. What comfort with one another; what fun to have at work.
Grayson caught him watching mid-spin and smiled smugly, and Carl ripped his attention back to the computer. Scorpio will not stir him up. Any-which-way. Out of sheer stubbornness, if for no other reason!
But of course, there were other reasons.
Pete had broken his heart. He was here to nurse it. Not hand it over to this handsome heartbreaker to do worse damage.
After the song-and-dance ended, Grayson signed out of his morning shift, slipped behind Carl, and peered over his shoulder. “Thank you for—what are you doing?”
Carl glanced over his shoulder at Grayson’s puzzled frown focused on his Excel sheet.
“Tallying the numbers.”
“You didn’t need to do your own calculations. This tab is set up to run those for you. You only need to pop the numbers into this column.”
Heat whipped Carl’s cheeks and he shut the laptop, glad Grayson couldn’t see his face.
“Nothing to worry about. I’ll fix it later. Let’s move on.” Grayson called to Sage, “I’m borrowing the laptop.”
“Sure! What happened to yours?”
Grayson patted Carl’s shoulder. “Need a second one today.”
Carrying two laptops, Carl followed Grayson quietly to his next gig—typing for Mr Wilson, a former Air Force pilot who’d recorded his daring adventures by hand and now wanted them typed into a document so he could self-publish his life story. They followed him through his old home to the back garden, where a standalone unit held a bed, desk, corner kitchen, and a dozen boxes of journals.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Mr Wilson asked.
Grayson took the laptops and set them on a long desk. “I’m halfway through. With Jason’s help, we might even make it by the end of the month.”
“Good, good. I’d like to see it released before I kick the bucket.” Mr Wilson pointed a shaky hand at the kitchenette in the corner. “Tea and coffee, and in that cupboard there’s a bunch of vitamins. Help yourselves.”
“Thanks,” Grayson said, pointing for Carl to bring one of the boxes from the bed to the desk. “We will.”
Carl heaved the box as Mr Wilson inched his walker out the door. “Remember, the door’s bung. Don’t shut it all the way. Call the landline if you get locked in, I can’t hear you yelling from here.”
“I know the drill.”
Mr Wilson raised a hand in a wave and stop-and-started his way back to the main house.
Carl dropped the box on the desk beside Grayson. “Seriously, how many jobs do you have?”
Grayson pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and passed it over. Carl stared at the colour-coded timetable filling up fifteen-plus hours of every day. “When do you sleep?”
“I finish at seven and start at four thirty. That’s plenty of time to have dinner, clean up, and go to bed.”
His monthly schedule looked insane. It ran weekends, too. Only this coming Saturday was free from things, but one free day hardly seemed enough. “How many jobs do you have?”
Grayson waved it off and slid his phone back into his pocket. “Let’s get started. Mr Wilson’s handwriting is a bit special, but I’ll clue you in.” He touched his throat with a wince. “First, tea.”
Carl’s tea went cold before he could even think to drink it. Mr Wilson’s handwriting was not special, it was atrocious. While Grayson rat-a-tap-tapped on his keyboard, gaze flying over lines of journal with apparent ease and words flying onto the laptop screen with incredible accuracy, Carl squinted at the yellowed pages, searched for the letters, and prodded them two-fingered. Grayson had done ten pages by the time Carl finished one.