Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Relax, Webb,” he says as I roll down the long, gated driveway and stop outside of a Victorian mansion on the western edges of Philadelphia in the heart of the Main Line. It’s straight out of a gothic horror story with peaked roofs, a real stone facade, storybook landscaping, and a red slate roof.
“Please don’t tell me to relax right now.”
“I’m just saying, Cowan’s on board. All we have to do—”
“Baptist.” I turn toward him, heart racing. I’m pregnant with your baby. “Cowan hasn’t finished a movie in almost ten years. Do you really think this is going to be easy?”
His easy smile slowly fades and he glances at the house. “No, I don’t.”
“Then don’t treat me like an idiot. Come on, let’s get in there.”
He laughs softly and follows me up the front steps. I knock on the massive oak doors and nearly scream when a blast so loud it makes my ears ring explodes somewhere from behind the structure.
“That was a gun,” Baptist says, stepping in front of me and shoving me toward the side. “Something’s wrong. That was—”
Another loud blast, and another. Followed by yelling.
“Stay here.” Baptist yanks the doors open and plunges inside.
“Baptist!” I stare around me, freaking out. Why are there gunshots right now, in the middle of the morning, in this gorgeously nice neighborhood? The house is set back from the road and all alone in a ring of trees, with no other houses in sight, which means nobody else knows what’s happening. If Baptist is in danger—
“Ah, shit,” I say quietly and hurry into the home.
The walls are all wood paneled and oil paintings are spaces around haphazardly. The carpets are threadbare, the floors creak, and while it looks like this place should be magnificent, it clearly hasn’t been taken care of. It’s dark, dusty, spider-web speckled, and smells like cat.
Another explosion, this one close, and Baptist’s voice. “Almost got it!”
I come around a corner and stop dead at the doorway.
The sitting room is packed with books. There are books piled taller than me all over the place, and the room is filled with dust and little specks of torn paper. Baptist is standing nearby, grinning wildly, and an older white man with gray hair and a stubbly gray beard is next to him, aiming a shotgun at something.
“I’ve got the bastard now!” the old man growls and fires.
I scream and cover my ears, and both men turn around.
“Easy,” Baptist says, grabbing the shotgun barrel and yanking it upwards. The old man grumbles, but he relinquishes the gun without protest. I stare at them in disbelief until understanding hits me.
The old man is Tony Cowan.
“Blair Webb, this is Tony.” Baptist gestures at the old director. “He was trying to kill a raccoon that got in through the back.”
“There are dozens of them living in this ramshackle nightmare of a place I call my home,” Cowan says, grinning at me manically. “I apologize for scaring you, young lady.” He walks over and shakes my hand, bowing obscenely.
I stand and gape, not sure what to say.
On the one hand, yes, this is my cinematic hero. On the other, the fucking psychopath is trying to shoot a raccoon with a shotgun in his own house.
“Nice to meet you too,” I finally say, and the father of my baby laughs.
Chapter 3
Baptist
I laugh because if I don’t, I’m pretty sure Blair is going to collapse here and now.
She’s pale, trembling slightly, and looking at Cowan like he’s both her hero and the nightmare bizarro-version of her hero.
“Come, you two,” Cowan says, striding away toward the back of the room. “Let’s escape this animal-ridden wasteland. Too many damn books in here. It masks the mice, and the raccoons hunt the mice, and it’s a vicious cycle because I won’t get rid of a single volume.”
“Do raccoons hunt mice?” I ask Blair quietly.
She shakes her head, looking dumbfounded. “You still have the gun.”
I look at the shotgun in my hands and sigh. “Better me than him.”
She smiles slightly at that.
I ditch the gun as Cowan leads us onto a back solarium. It’s filled with plants and Victorian fainting couches, but at least there aren’t any actual animals. Cowan putters around, watering the flowers, and Blair takes a seat.
I remain standing, doing my best not to stare at my partner.
It’s hard not to stare at her.
She glows. It’s strange and cliché—but it’s the truth. It’s like she’s always there in the corner of my eye, glowing, drawing my attention, and when she’s around, it’s like the sun’s staring at me in the face. I can’t stop thinking about her, not ever since the wedding when I let myself lose control.
Which was a mistake I won’t ever make again.
“You two want to make my movie,” Cowan says finally.
“We do, yes,” Blair answers. “Baptist says the script is amazing.”