Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“Is that your son?” Paisleigh asks as we walk out the door. “This?” I hold out the baby to her. “I found it outside. It’s not yours?”
She throws her head back, giggling. “Nooooo!”
I hear Krisjen growl behind me and finally hear her lock the front door, following.
Army and I strap the kids into the car, and I vaguely hear some grumbling behind me, but Krisjen climbs in, and we take off.
The drive isn’t far. We’re barely leaving her neighborhood, actually.
We turn right, climb a hill unusual to find in Florida, and then swing left, the gas lanterns on both sides of the street coming into view and all lit.
A buzz spreads under my skin. Like it always does when I come here.
A canopy of trees hangs over the sidewalks, the soft glow of the lamps lighting the mild fog, making me feel like I’m nowhere near Sanoa Bay.
Nowhere near St. Carmen.
I remember the day I first worked on this street, and while it was beautiful, that’s nothing compared to how it looks at night. Like every house has a mom, and there’s an apple pie cooling on the windowsill.
Army stops in front of a 1930s Tudor-style cottage, white rock with patches of wear that charmingly reveal the natural brown underneath. The second floor has a lone window where the roof meets at the point, and the shutters have clearly been repainted over and over for a hundred years.
A knocker that I know is an owl adorns the green front door, and unlike most homes that have square windows, this one features domed panes.
Trees loom on both sides of the walkway to the front door, but Army pulls the truck into the driveway and toward the back of the house, out of sight.
“What are we doing?” Krisjen asks.
But I don’t answer. “Come on,” I tell the kids, opening my door.
Paisleigh scrambles, trying to pull off her seat belt. Mars follows me.
I bypass the side door and take the walk to the front of the house, wanting Krisjen to see it this way. Pulling out my keys, I unlock the door and push it open, stepping aside to let everyone else enter.
The kids run, Army following with Dex, and Krisjen rushes after her siblings. “Stop!” she yells. “No.”
But I pull her back and sweep her into my arms.
She kicks, frowning at me. “What are you doing?” she bites out. And then she shouts, “Mars! Paisleigh!”
“They’re fine.”
“Are you house-sitting?” she asks me. “Why do you have a key?”
I smile and carry her inside, bridal-style, kind of getting turned on by how pissy she is since she stopped sleeping with me.
“Let me down,” she whines.
“No.”
“Dude,” she scolds. “Come on. They’re going to break something. I need to get them out of here.”
Heavy footfalls pound upstairs as the kids explore the cottage, and I keep the lights off, so we don’t alert the neighbors that someone’s here when we’re not supposed to be.
She squirms in my arms, and I heft her up again, adjusting my hold. Funny. She never felt this heavy on top of me.
“I never really liked your house.” I give the door behind me a slight kick, closing it. “Or Clay’s, or most of the houses on this side of the tracks.”
I head left, down the two steps on the hardwood floor, into the living room that features a brick fireplace. The owner probably only uses it in conjunction with the air-conditioning just so they can stand the heat for a little bit of ambience.
“Your house is too refined,” I tell her. “Too cold.”
The smell of brick, leather, and a woman’s perfume, probably still lingering on the high-back cushioned armchairs from the last time the owners were here, fills my lungs, and I can’t imagine that any more than two people should ever live here.
Two people reading in those armchairs. Laughing over a bottle. Eating and taking a bath in the old tub upstairs, and listening to records and never unable to hear each other. Never forced to shout or do more than whisper. No fighting. Nothing breaking.
“But this house …” I muse, looking around. “I could live here.”
I feel her staring at me, and I’m sure she’s wondering if I’m drunk, because she believes I’m not capable of any decor other than beer-can pyramids and Samurai swords. Of course, I do have two Samurai swords in my room at home.
I step farther into the room, and she hooks an arm around my neck to steady herself.
I walk her past the mahogany bookshelves and the antique vase on a pedestal in the corner. “I would love to have my own business someday, too,” I tell her. “A place where people come to sit and talk over beer.”
“Like a bar?”
“A pub,” I retort.
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, there’s a difference.” I scowl down at her. “A bar is drinking and drama. A pub is …” I pause, looking around the room as if the word I’m searching for is written on the walls. “Community. Somewhere you feel at home.”