Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
“I’ll walk you home,” I say. It’s not a question.
“Um, I don’t really need an escort. But sure.”
We walk out the back. With the rain gone, everything smells fresh and alive, and I let her admire the grounds around my place.
“We have some of the same plants,” she says, pointing to a square box of blooming flowers.
“Your grandmother was kind enough to give my gardener a few pointers. The heirloom seeds, too, I believe,” I say.
She looks at me, startled, before settling into a disarming smile.
“I know why you abandoned us at the pier,” she says.
“Yeah?”
I side-eye her nervously.
How could she know? Has she been doing her own research? Snooping into my life?
“Is she hot?”
“What?” I glance at her, taken aback.
“I saw you come out of the store with blue flowers.” Curiosity flares in her eyes.
You didn’t see too well, Miss Landers, or you would have noticed it was a funeral wreath, I think.
“Hot, sure. If you’re into vampires,” I say numbly.
“Oh, I knew that. It takes one to know one, right?” She grins at me.
“Opposites attract. Sometimes. But if it takes one to know one, what does that make you? You’re a little monster yourself, Miss Landers,” I say, loving the way her cheeks heat.
But that grin she’s wearing just widens as she stops and leans in.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve always been more of a stake driver.”
5
No Getting Out Of Hand (Jenn)
Two days.
Two days of running this gauntlet I’ve agreed to take on to save my inheritance.
It turns out, coaching Dracula’s team to make good shorts is harder than just taking the footage and making them myself.
I’ve thought about commandeering the whole project several times. I could have this town blowing up on every platform in under a week, but the people are friendly and eager, and they’re all so invested in this project.
So later today, we’re staging a little event we’re calling 'Pints at the Pinnacle' for a photo shoot.
Pinnacle Pointe is still the kind of place where a few beers brings out the best in everyone. And there’s nothing cozier than the only rustic tavern in town, Murphy’s, with an Irish tricolor and the faded black-and-white photos plastered on the wall. They show off everybody’s great-grandparents building this little town one fishing haul and giggling toddler at a time.
There’s so much history here.
Unlike Seattle with its busy streets and glass high-rises and ever shifting cityscape, this history is loud and clear. It’s in your face, real enough to reach out and touch in the bright smiles of every neighbor.
But first, the mail.
The mailbox is at the end of the street and the postman pulls away just as I’m driving by. I last checked the mail a few days ago, so I pull over and see what he’s left me.
I fill my purse with junk mail that needs to be recycled and—a handwritten letter?
Hmm.
I don’t recognize the return address, but it’s probably another late bereavement card. Gram had obscure friends everywhere.
I slide my finger under the seal and pop it open to see who’s sending their sympathies now.
But it’s not another card.
It’s a letter with an offer on my property.
Less than Dracula’s eye popping offering, but it looks like he was right about developers being hot on my heels.
There’s no real estate brokerage listed, just a number to call back.
Odd.
Don’t realtors usually plaster their names and pictures all over everything?
Of course, I’m not ready to sell out to anyone, but if I have to, I should keep my options open. Never mind the ridiculous agreement I made with my boss...
So I tuck the letter in the front pocket of my purse for safekeeping, away from the junk mail.
Staging Pints at the Pinnacle takes most of the day once I arrive.
By the time we’ve got it done, the tavern opens for the evening crowd.
“Jenn, how’s this?” Sarah asks, a cheerful but shy blonde with a good eye for detail.
I lean over her laptop to see what she’s showing me. It’s a picture of the bar with the caption 'Drink to tomorrow!'
“There isn’t anything wrong with it, per se, but it looks more like the cover of Good Housekeeping than an Insta image. And photo slideshows don’t perform as well on TikTok.”
Her face falls. “I can do it better. No problem.”
Ouch.
I hate that she takes it personally.
“It’s not that I don’t like it. It just needs a few tweaks before—”
“What makes a solid Instagram image?” she cuts in.
I have to think for a minute. “Well, you’re thinking like a magazine, right? The cover has story teasers, page numbers, and photo credits all over it.”
She nods.
“With these platforms, the image is the story. You want to bring your viewer right into the scene and let them imagine what it’d be like to be here. But Dracula—” Whoops. I didn’t mean to call him that to her face. “Cromwell, I mean—”