Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79007 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79007 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Because, until I saw that, I knew, I just knew that the rest of my coworkers would gang up, and find a way to use the money without giving me my dream.
Now they couldn't.
I was getting my teen center.
"Who have you been talking to, Reese?" she snapped, eyes shooting daggers at me, but, for once, it didn't even bother me.
Talking to?
Well, I mean, my whole family knew.
My mom, aunts, grandmother, and sister were doing alright in life, but could never afford eighty-grand. Not even if they all chipped in. My brothers, too, had nice lives going, but it was unlikely. My sister-in-law, Elsie, well, she made an obscene amount of money, but she had other things on her mind right then. No way was she giving me the teen center I had talked about a year before.
So that was everyone.
Right?
I hadn't talked about it since then except to... oh.
Oh.
My.
God.
That wasn't possible, right?
After five weeks of radio silence?
After screwing with my feelings more than anyone had been able to in more years than I could remember?
Why?
More specifically, why now?
Was this his form of an apology?
Because, honestly, it wasn't an apology.
It was generous.
It was over-the-top and heart-soaringly awesome.
But it wasn't exactly those words one needed for it to be considered an apology.
Plus, he didn't sign it.
Not even with an initial.
He was anonymous?
Why?
Because, maybe, he felt crummy, but wasn't man enough to show up and say sorry for being a butthead?
I didn't have the answers to any of those questions, but that didn't stop me from rolling them around my head in a never-ending loop for the rest of my workday, making me a bit more absent-minded and jumpy than usual. I actually got shushed by a group of elderly ladies when I had been re-shelving books, and one of the volunteers came up behind me, tapping me on the shoulder, and making me let out an actual, real-life, screech.
It was humiliating.
By the time the end of day rolled around, I was more than sick of my own head, more than frustrated by the endless complaining about how the money would have been better spent elsewhere, and all-together just ready to soak in a bath with about five different bombs, and fall into a good book.
Maybe something suspenseful, something that would keep me engaged, keep me flipping pages until my eyes were too tired to stay open.
Maybe sleep could claim me and put an end to all the winding circles.
"I'm just saying," Barb said as she followed me out into the parking lot. Because heaven forbid I get some peace. "Try to get to the bottom of who sent the money, and get them to change their minds about where it is going."
"I will..."
"Do no such fucking thing," a voice filled in for me, making me stop dead in the middle of the lot, my head shooting in the direction it came from. Which happened to be the side of my car.
Where he was leaning.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Like he hadn't disappeared for over a month.
Like we were still the best of friends.
God, he looked good too.
I mean, he always looked good. It was impossible for him to have a bad day, an off day. Never once had I seen him and thought 'oh, buddy, you need more beauty sleep.'
But maybe, as the saying went, he was a sight for sore eyes. He was the beauty of rain to a farmer in a drought. He was like the swelling sensation you got inside when you put a smile on the face of the person you lov... liked. Platonically. As a friend.
His look was usually the same - dark jeans, white tee, leather cut, boots, full, but neat beard, longish hair, amazing bone structure, a smile to kill for...
Good lord.
I needed to get a grip.
"Excuse me?" Barb asked, clearly put off.
"She will not be going to the person who donated the money - that person is incidentally me," he announced. "She will also not be convincing me of shit. That money is to be used for the teen center that Reese has been wanting since she started here. You don't like that, duchess," he went on, and I would swear, you could see the woman bristle at the word, "then tough shit. I will happily go over your head about it if I need to."
"I don't know who you..."
"I mean, we got a concerned community here in Navesink Bank," he added with a smirk as he pushed off of my car, and started walking to the side. "Lots of concerned parents trying to keep their kids out of the street gangs, the mob, and, well, the one-percent bikers," he concluded, smile wicked, as he moved over to put a palm on the handlebars of his bike that was parked two spots over from mine.