Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Me: Ummm. I’m not doing this.
Tristan: It’s the least you can do to repay me for my pain and suffering.
Me: Are you always so dramatic?
Tristan: According to this test, yes.
That piques my interest. If the test says he’s dramatic, then maybe I need to see what I am for having to put up with him.
Me: Fine. I’m thinking about going to Hemingford Hall. Did you want to go with me?
Tristan: No. You won’t get in. They allow private tours if you email them, but you won’t get in on such short notice.
I refrain from sending him the eye roll emoji. He thinks he knows everything and it’s super annoying. I’m a Park. Surely they’ll let me have a look. It’ll be nice to get started on the project rather than relying on Two for all my information.
Why does everyone get to call him Two, but I have to refer to him by his real name? God, he’s so freaking weird. Feeling rebellious, I change his name on my contacts just because I can. Asshole.
Before I take a trip to Hemingford Hall, I pop over to check my socials. Rocks of apprehension sit heavily in my stomach as I brace myself for anything weird.
Another message.
The sender keeps changing the numbers at the end and creating new profiles. I don’t know how they’re getting past the bots that block this sort of thing. I’m definitely going to have to have Jude look into it if they keep it up.
You look sad lately. Overwhelmed. Maybe you need someone to hold you and promise it’ll all be okay.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Yeah, this is definitely getting creepy. I want to reply back and tell the stalker to fuck off, but then I worry about it being a troll trying to entrap me. The trolls love pushing people until they break and lose their shit. I’m not going to give this person the satisfaction of a response.
Block and delete.
Before I can run off, I end up signing off on two different paid sponsorship contracts for a couple thousand each that’ll be due by the end of the month. I mark it on my calendar and then finally close out my phone, eager to do something with all this pent-up energy.
Two: Well???
I huff at his impatience.
Me: I’ll take the test in a minute if it means you’ll leave me the hell alone.
Two: K.
Stupid, infuriating man.
I pull up the link to the test and then quickly fly through all the questions. Once it emails me the results, I pop it open and read my personality type.
Type Three.
The Achiever.
Me: I’m a 3. Happy?
Two: I’m a 4. No.
Ugh.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and shove it into my Michael Kors handbag. My nail scrapes along the zipper and chips the paint on one corner. For a moment, I wonder if I should take the time to fix it but then decide checking out Hemingford Hall, while it’s still daylight, takes precedence.
“Gem, honey,” Mom says from my bedroom doorway. “Everything okay? I was changing the sheets in Dempsey’s room and heard you huffing.”
I still don’t know if it’s sweet or creepy that she keeps his room exactly as he left it. He moved out and is engaged to her best friend. Not sure why we can’t turn his room into a theater room or something fun.
“It’s just my partner for one of my projects. Frustrating.”
Mom smiles. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way through it. You always do.” Her eyes dart to my purse. “Going somewhere?”
“Hemingford Hall. That’s the project site. I’m going to see if they’ll give me a tour.”
“You’re not going alone, though, right?”
I force a smile, lying through my teeth. “Of course not. My partner is meeting me up there. I’ll be fine, Mom.”
“I know you will,” she says, eyebrows knitting. “Keep your phone on, though, so I know where you’re at. You know how we worry.”
Worry is an understatement.
My parents think every time I leave the house I’ll be accosted and trafficked. While I know they do it because they care, I can’t help but wish they’d give me some credit to navigate the world just as my brothers do.
I give Mom a quick hug and then hurry out the door before she can ask any more questions. Dad isn’t around, which is a good thing. He’s better at sniffing out lies.
Once I’m in my car and cruising on the main road, I sigh in relief, feeling as though I just escaped prison. It’s not really a prison. I’m just being a brat. My parents go over and beyond when it comes to providing for us, but it doesn’t make it any less suffocating.
Blasting my favorite playlist, I make a pit stop at the coffee shop and then follow my navigation to the address I’d found for Hemingford Hall.