Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
He didn’t move, but some of the impatience melted away. The lines around his mouth softened.
What a fucked-up pair we were. I snapped at him and it settled him.
“Go, Stone. I will be fine.”
He nodded. “Don’t talk to your stepbrother today. If he calls, wait till I’m here. Okay?”
I nodded before he left the room.
I was slower following, going to my section of the house.
I didn’t know why he made that suggestion, but whatever. I was so far from thinking about that right now. My stepsister guilt had been dispensed. Jared was with an entire family who wanted him. I’d been fucked by a superstar who was helping me out of guilt. Okay. He said he cared, but I wasn’t looking at him with rosy glasses.
This wasn’t a romance waiting in the wings.
Maybe more sex. Hot sex. Primal sex. Yeah. Maybe that shit, but nothing else, and remembering all of this, I had two weeks to deal. Two weeks to let my body heal. To let my heart deal with the mourning much as I could handle it, and then I had to make a plan because fuck, I was going to need a job when Stone would send me packing.
I heard the garage opening, the gate opening a second later, but then I was in my room and I almost collapsed on my own bed.
No, no, no. I couldn’t do that. I’d think, that led to feeling, that led to wanting the world to swallow me up. Moving. I had to keep moving or doing something. But I was hurting. Nope. Sitting still was worse than the physical pain.
So, what, then? I’d never been into drugs or alcohol, not more than a social wine or something. Cleaning, that’s it. I could clean. But no. Stone’s house looked impeccable. He must’ve had a cleaning lady come in on the regular, I was sure of that.
Back to square one.
I washed up, changed my clothes, and by then the bed was beckoning to me again. Phone. I had to find my phone, at least have it by me. Going in search, it took me back to Stone’s room. There was a pile of my stuff on his floor, and kneeling down, I scooped it all up and went back to my space. I could snoop, take in what his room looked like, but not at that moment. I didn’t have the energy for that.
A yawn left me.
We’d barely slept, so hopefully day one could be passed just by sleeping. Some of the panic subsided, and when I got to my room, I was yawning again. It was the kind that made you tear up, and I dropped my stuff on a chair, digging through it until I found my phone.
Plugging that in, I didn’t check the screen.
Day one of actually dealing with my concussion was about to commence. Doing nothing, here I go. I got back in bed, pulled the covers up, and rolled over.
I slept day one away, meandering out to the kitchen sometime that afternoon, and that’s when boredom hit me. Not normal boredom. This was the kind of boredom that was verging on panic because I needed something to do or I was going to lose it.
I already had lost it the night before and a marathon of sex had been the result.
An idea took hold standing in the kitchen. Stone liked when my mom baked for us. So, going into his kitchen, that’s what I was going to do. It started first with spying a pile of cookbooks in the pantry. I’d been in there looking for water, only realizing later the water would probably be in the fridge, but maybe it was fate. Within an hour, I was sitting in the middle of a stack of fourteen cookbooks.
I couldn’t believe Stone had these, and I really couldn’t believe he had them stashed away in a corner. Why not use them if you were going to have them? Then I stilled, opening one. First page.
To Stone, I know how much you liked that birthday cake I made for your seventh birthday. Here’s the recipe for it. Page 147. — Sherry
I looked at the next.
Another note.
Stone, those cookies you devoured with Dusty for Halloween that one year you were in fourth and she was in third, the recipe is on page 67. — Sherry
And a third.
Stone, I’m breaking tradition here. I know you liked my baked goods, but I couldn’t resist. Remember the sloppy joes that you raved about? I made them for Dusty’s tenth birthday. The recipe is on page 183. — Sherry
I looked through a fourth, a fifth.
Sixth.
Seventh.
My heart was pounding, then dropping, until I got to the last cookbook. Every single one of them. All from my mother. Each with a note written from — Sherry.
Why?
Why did she do this?