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)
“One is for a hair mask. They sent me some freebies to try. I absolutely loved how it made my hair feel. We’ve negotiated that I’ll do an ad for their product on my page and I’ll be compensated for it.”
“Two grand for a hair mask.” He shakes his head, voice filled with awe. “This is a legit thing? They’re not scamming you? Or are you scamming them?”
I snigger. “I’m not scamming anyone. And yes, it’s a legit thing. Welcome to the future, Two. So glad you could join us.”
He scratches at his cheek with his middle finger, which makes me grin. Though he’s still a complete asshole most of the time, I’m learning to navigate the treacherous depths of Two.
Our conversation is cut short when he pulls into a long driveway that takes us to an updated-looking farmhouse. I wish it were daylight so I could see it properly.
“My workshop is around back. We have to be quiet.”
We get out of his car with our food and drinks, and I follow him into the darkness on the side of the house. The moon illuminates a decent-sized shed. He has me hold his drink while he fiddles with the door.
“Ignore the mess,” Two says as he flicks on the light. “I do.”
As soon as I can see inside the shed, I’m in awe. Shelves line the walls and are covered with various tools, boards and textiles, and stacks of old magazines. There are several worktables, but one in particular seems to be the one that gets the most use as it’s the cleanest and has a model in progress sitting on top. Two leans over the table and flips on a space heater before returning to take his drink back from me.
“This is Cedarwood Mansion,” he says, motioning to the model. “I was in the middle of wallpapering when you texted.”
I set my drink and our food bags down on a clear spot on the table so I can take a closer look at the replica. The high level of detail on such a small thing instantly captivates me.
“Holy shit,” I murmur as I take it all in, “this is so cool.”
“Ideally, I’d have liked to repurpose materials found in Cedarwood for the replica, but the owners wouldn’t let me.”
“Rude,” I tease.
“That’s what I thought.” He picks up a thin piece of wood from the table. “Most of the material I use is leftover stuff from when my dads remodel places. They have a ton of stuff in their shop. Dad uses a lot for inspiration when he’s coming up with design ideas.”
The pride with which he speaks about his parents softens me toward him. I may complain about my family, but I love them dearly. They mean everything to me. It sounds as though he feels the same about his parents too. It makes me like him a little more.
“Do you think Paula will let us use stuff from Hemingford Hall for our replica?” I ask, turning to look at him.
He’s crouched near me, also taking in the sight of the model, so our faces are close—so close I notice flecks of dark green in his chilly gray eyes.
“We’re going to ask,” he says with a crooked grin. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll beg.”
We both grin before turning to inspect the piece some more. He goes through each part, showing me tiny details like the brass doorknob on the front with the initials CM carved on top.
“The real Cedarwood Mansion has this,” Two explains. “All of my replicas are as exact as they can be.”
“I love this,” I tell him, truly meaning it. “It’s so impressive and well thought out. You should be proud.”
He pulls back and refuses to meet my stare, shrugging. “Hungry?”
“Yup.” I stifle a sigh of frustration. Just when I thought we were making progress, he pulls away again. “Do you make the furniture and stuff too?”
He drags another stool over for me to sit down at. After he’s seated, we dig around in our bags, and once our burgers are out, he takes a huge bite of his, dropping shreds of lettuce all over his jeans. Messy, messy boy.
“I make everything,” he says around a mouthful of food. “Even the stuff that goes in the cupboards.”
I shove a napkin at him so he’ll deal with the ketchup on his lip. “Really? You must have tiny tools, huh?”
He nods, snatching up one of the little tools with his free hand. “The hardest part is finding the right tools for jobs like this. I’ve collected a lot of these over the years.”
“You should see my nail art arsenal.” As soon as I blurt it out, I freeze. Everyone in my family knows I do my own nail art, but it’s not something I tell my followers. They always ask where I go to get them done and I just tell them it’s a secret. My nail art is my hobby that feels sacred and something I don’t want to share with the world.