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)
With a heavy sigh, I head back to my vehicle. The hair on my arms stands on end when I see the door sitting open.
I closed it.
But I didn’t lock it.
I’d just shoved the keys into my jacket pocket, all too eager to get a closer look at this place. What if that person stole my new purse?
I rush over to the vehicle, my eyes darting over to my purse, which sits exactly in the same place. Relief floods over me until I see a cut, yellow buttercup-looking flower sitting in the cup holder. Beside it is an envelope.
After looking into the back to make sure nobody is hiding, I settle into my seat, close the door, and lock it. I turn the engine over to get heat pouring out of the vents. I’m tempted to sip my coffee, but what if the person who left this stuff for me poisoned it?
Quickly, I roll down the window and dump out the contents of my cup. Once I’m safe inside again, I pick up the envelope and tear it open.
You can block me all you want on social media, but it’s not so easy to block me in reality.
- The One Who Admires You the Most
Nausea roils in my gut, souring the coffee I did manage to consume.
This creepy stalker isn’t some strange person in their mom’s basement halfway across the world.
No, this person is here.
They know what I drive, who I am, and know exactly how to find me.
This just went from annoying to terrifying.
Two
Golden: I got us an appointment for this afternoon at 4. Do you mind picking me up?
I continue to stare at the text even after she sends her address.
Golden: Please.
Me: You have a car. Remember? You hit me with it.
Golden: Fine, I’ll pick you up then. Where do you live?
In a house with two men who were almost your daddies…
Me: I’ll drive.
I glance at my watch and am annoyed to see I’ll need to go now. I’m knee-deep in wallpapering the foyer of Cedarwood Mansion, which will be a bitch to try and pick up where I left off, but Hemingford Hall is more of a priority at the moment. With a huff, I close everything up and turn off my space heater. This project will have to wait for another day.
Rather than dealing with questions from my dads, I avoid the house altogether and head straight for my car. Once inside, I have to try the engine four times before it turns over.
“Good girl,” I say, patting the cracked leather on the dash. “You purr like a kitten.”
The heater doesn’t work great in my car, but I don’t need it. My military jacket keeps me warm. As I drive, my thoughts drift back to yesterday when Gemma told me she was a Type Three.
I did a deep dive last night, digging into everything that went into a Type Three Enneagram personality. Basically, they’re obsessed with success, accomplishments, and their self-image. From what I know of Gemma, it seems spot-on.
I’ll see Tate again tomorrow between classes. This time, I’m going to get his cell number. I have tons of questions about this shit that I think he can answer.
My phone GPS barks at me and I turn down the road that leads to Gemma’s house. It’s the biggest and fanciest one on the street. Her black weapon of a Tahoe sits in the driveway. My shoulder now sports a big-ass bruise thanks to her.
Rather than going up to the door, I lay on the horn. Seconds later, she rushes out of the house, glaring at me.
I don’t acknowledge her irritation, choosing to fiddle with the radio instead. There’s a local station that plays rock from the fifties that I really like. Settling on that station, I wait for Gemma to climb in.
The door squeaks in protest when she opens it. Some trash I forgot to take out gets whipped out and tossed into her yard. Whoops. They’re paper napkins. Biodegradable. The earth will be fine.
“Drive,” Gemma huffs, slamming the door once she’s inside. “Otherwise, Dad will come out here and give you the third degree.”
I’m not about to talk to her parents, so I put the Rover in reverse and cruise back down her road to the main one.
“Your car is a mess,” she says, shoving one of my filthy boots out of the way with her pristine black one. “How can you deal with this?”
“It’s not that messy.”
“Two, you littered my yard when I opened my door. It’s a dumpster.”
“Tristan.”
“Here we go.” She sighs heavily. “I’d rather not go into all this with you today. Can we call some sort of truce? I had a bad day yesterday and I’m on edge.”
This intrigues me. “Why? Because of me?”
She smirks at me. “You wish.”
Kind of. It’s satisfying to know I get under her skin as much as she gets under mine.